


In Search of Plums

by lunaraindrop



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Accidental Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Establishing backstory, Fluff, Getting Together, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just say no to goats milk, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Romance, Season 2 Canon Divergence, Ted Coldwater is the hero we needed, Ted Coldwater lived, but everyone is happy about it?, but not the focus of the story, forced magical marriage, magical law run amuck, mention of violence and bigotry, throwing plums is a declaration of war, unofficial Coldwater adoption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:03:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaraindrop/pseuds/lunaraindrop
Summary: Canon Divergence: Second SeasonTed Coldwater is cancer free, but an accidental criminal in need of some serious help. Quentin is tasked to go tell someone bad news, but finds it to be anything but. Instead, love blooms in a least likely place.Meanwhile, Eliot is still in a loveless marriage and unable to leave his new kingdom, but can an old magical law set he and Fen free?





	1. Quentiiiin, just killed a man

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this crazy idea for a Queliot fic came out of nowhere. What are your thoughts? Too crazy? 
> 
> Kudos and Comments = Love!

* * *

Todd brought Quentin the message from the admin office. He remembered what had happened the last time he received a message from the admin office. That was the day he found out that his father had brain cancer. Just the thought of the little slip of paper telling him to contact his sick father caused anxiety.

He accepted the note with a nod… but did not unfold it.

_Please don’t be from Dad. Please don’t fucking be from my dad. Please be something stupid like a notice of a missed an eye appointment or unpaid parking tickets for a car I don’t have. Anything but-_

It was a message from his dad.

_Shit._

An urgent message from his dad.

 **_Fuck_ ** _!_

He hastily gathered his papers and books into his arms, and quickly stumbled his way to his room. (It was honestly a miracle he did not drop anything or trip into anyone.) He liberated his heavy study materials in a chaotic heap on top of his comforter. For just a second he stopped and considered making some order out of the bedlam, but physically shook the idea out of his head. The loaned books did not appear to be in any distress, and his notes looked only marginally crumpled. That would do. He had more pressing matters.

He went to grab his newer messenger bag next to the bookshelf, then thought better of it. He turned and dove under the bed. After a little searching the dark confines under his bed, he found his old leather messenger bag. The newer one had been a present from Eliot, who said he could not stand to see Q carrying “that beat-up atrocity”. He got it from an exclusive shop in London that catered to magicians. It was enchanted to truly be water and fireproof, and the inside embroidered label said it was for _Adventurers._ (Quentin would periodically run his hands reverently over his dark canvas gift when nobody was looking.)

That one was full, though. He took that one everywhere he went. His dad said _urgent_. There was no time to empty its contents.

The “atrocity” would have to do. (He could just _feel_ Eliot shudder in disgust. It would have made him chuckle any other time to tease a reaction out of him like that.)

He randomly grabbed a couple of t shirts and underwear from his drawers and stuffed them into the bag. He threw in a pair of jeans, a wad of cash from said jeans, his toothbrush, and his copy of _Fillory and Further_ before throwing on the shoulder strap. Right before he ran out the door, he faltered over to his desk and left a sloppily written note about going to see his father. You know, if anyone noticed him missing, that is. Eliot and Margo were in Fillory, Jules wasn’t a student, and Alice-

_No, not the time to think about that._

As he made his way to the portal, he prayed the _urgent_ was something **good**.

* * *

He had no way of expecting _this_. He felt the sting of tears forming at the corners of his eyes, even as a grin was threatening to poke at his dimple.

He sat in his childhood home’s living room, blinking in wide-eyed, elated, bewilderment.

“Umm, Dad? Can you run that by me again?”

A harried looking Ted Coldwater ran a hand over his face. “Well, it’s like I said. Son, I don’t have brain cancer anymore.”

Quentin erupted in laughter and tears as he flew at his father in a hug.

“Oh my God, this is so great! Like the greatest great! I can’t believe you’re okay!”

Ted wrapped one tentative arm around his son, before slowly patting him on the back.

Something was not right with this picture.

Quentin pulled back to look at his father’s anxious face.

“You…are okay, right? Did they find something else, or misdiagnose or-?”

Ted was quick to reassure his son.

“No no! I’m fine. Healthy as a horse according to my doctors. No signs of the cancer. They said it was practically a medical miracle.”

Quentin felt dread like a heavy weight in his stomach.

“Dad, why do I get the feeling that this was not a ‘medical miracle’”?

Ted stood up and started pacing the room. If anyone else that knew Quentin had been there, they would have noticed that he got that particular trait from his father.

He took another couple of rotations on the living room rug, pulled at his short hair, before turning back to face his nervous son.

“Do you remember watching that movie _Phenomenon_ with me? The one with John Travolta and the magic mind powers?”

“Yeah, Dad. Didn’t the character have…” he stopped himself from saying the next three words.

“A brain tumor. Yeah.”

“Yeah Dad, I-uhh, I remember it.”

Ted took a couple of moments, appearing to try and find the right words.

“It was on TV one day last month, and it really made me think. I mean, look at you. You have magic, and you don’t have a brain tumor. You’re my flesh and blood, and I have one. Who’s to say that I _don’t_ have magical powers, right?”

Quentin felt his heart brake.

“Oh God, Dad.”

Ted held up his hand, and Quentin fell silent.

“There’s this fire and brimstone preacher that stands on the green by Main St. I used to see him everyday on my way to work, and he would yell stuff like “You need to repent’ and ‘You can’t heal yourself’. That day I wondered, ‘But what if I can?’”

Ted walked back over to the couch and took a sip of his beer.

“There was a commercial break about drain cleaner, and how it cleans out tough clogs from pipes. And it just clicked in my mind. It was not just a tumor, it was a clog backing something up and building pressure that my doctors just could not see.”

He took his beer bottle and used it to touch a coaster on the coffee table.

“So…I thought really hard and…pushed.”

“Pushed...?”

“At the tumor, at the clog.”

“But what did you push with, Dad?”

This is when Ted looked his son dead in the eyes with a look that was equal parts excitement and fright.

“With my mind. I pushed and I pushed until…until I felt it _move_.”

Quentin scooted to the edge of his seat. “Then what happened?”

“Then the tumor was just…gone.”

“Gone?!”

“Completely gone.”

Eyes wide again, Quentin took the bottle from his hand before grabbing it with both of his own.

“Dad, don’t you see what this means? You have magic.”

Hearing himself, he barked out a laugh.

“Holy shit, my dad has magic! You cured fucking cancer with magic! Nobody has ever been able to do that! Shit, what if I got my ability from you?”

He fidgeted in excitement. “Have you tried to use it since?”

Ted sighed and hung his head.

“Yes, Quentin. Which is why I asked you to come home.”

The smile faded on Q’s face.

“Dad, what is it?”

Ted looked back at his son with sorrow.

“Curly Q, I have to turn myself in. Are there magic police at that school of yours?”

“Po-police? What the fuck, Dad! What’s going on?!”

Ted began to silently cry.

“Oh Quentin, I’ve done something terrible.”

Thinking of what unchecked magic could possibly do, (like how a little bullied boy used telekinesis on a school bus to run over his tormentor for one), he stood up and hugged his father.

“Dad, whatever it is, we’ll fix it, okay? I can help fix it.”

“Oh Curly Q. Thank you so much, but you can’t fix this.”

Knowing it had to be something really bad, Quentin braced himself for the answer.

“What happened, Dad?”

“I-I-I killed a man.”

Even bracing himself, he felt the blow like a physical hit. He swayed with dizziness and had to grab the couch to stay upright. He also cursed his stupid brain for deciding it was a good time to play _Bohemian Rhapsody_ in his head.

“Wha-you-y-you _killed_ someone?”

Ted full on wailed into his son’s shirt.

“It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!”

Quentin shoved his panic deep down and tried to take some calming breaths (oddly to the lilting piano of Freddie Mercury that still would not leave his head). His hand jerked as he pet his father’s head, trying his best to be a comforting rock of stability.

“Okay. Okay, Dad. I think you need to tell me what happened, and right now.”

So, Ted did.

The week before he had been on a trip to visit Quentin’s great aunt Bernadette. Over the years Ted had softly complained to Quentin about how Ted’s cousin Charles never visited his mother. Having lost Quentin’s grandmother years before, Ted had a special place in his heart for the senile old lady. Twice a year Ted would buy a plane ticket and book a room at Evansville Ramada Limited for a weekend, just to see her in her long term care facility. Half the time she thought Ted _was_ Charles. Most of the time he didn’t correct her.

Bernadette was a fan of fresh plums, and while the care facility was a nice one, (he checked), the fruit they provided were in the forms of fruit cocktail and store brand orange juice. A couple years ago a helpful nurse told him of a close by farmer’s market. That particular day he planned to go pick up some plums, only to notice that the town was having some type of Pride fair. Being a proud father of a bisexual son, Ted decided to stop by and see if he could find Quentin a t-shirt or something.

“And that’s when I heard the screams.”

“Where were the screams coming from?”

Some of the fair-goers were screaming out in outrage. Some in pain. Ted had looked over towards the farmer’s market, and saw a man angerly throwing fruit and screaming obscenities.

“He was throwing fruit?”

“Mainly apples. He kept terrorizing this one gay couple, talking about punishing ‘Adam and Steve’ with God’s forbidden fruit. That was the cleanest thing he said.”

“Jesus. What did you do, Dad?”

“I tried to make him stop, but he punched me in the stomach. It knocked me to the ground. He…called me a few choice names that I will not repeat. Some of the fair-goers helped me up and told him that the police were on the way. As another market stall owner pulled me over to a seat, I noticed the sign over his head.”

Having never seen the sign, Quentin motioned him to continue.

“Curly Q, the farmer’s market is called _Pot of Grapes._ There’s this cartoon leprechaun doing a high kick standing next to a pot filled with white grapes. Above both is this tacky pastel rainbow. And I thought, well, ‘Wouldn’t it be ironic if that bitter bigoted old man was hit by a rainbow and sour grapes?’”

Quentin felt his blood run cold.

“Dad. D-did you hit him with that sign?”

Ted gesticulation and cried harder.

“I felt the sign become…loose. I can’t explain it any other way.”

Quentin pulled his father closer, trying his best to stave off what was going to be one massive panic attack.

“I didn’t know how to stop it. I yelled, ‘MOVE!’ and ‘WATCH OUT!’ Other people moved, but the stubborn… **FUCKER** just kept spewing hate and throwing fruit! I tried to stop it, I promise you Quentin, I did, but it was too heavy! It fell and it crushed him. Everyone, including me, were covered in blood. People were traumatized.”

Grasping at straws, a thought came to Quentin.

“But, wait. The police can’t blame you for this. For all they know, you were just a bystander that he assaulted.”

“No, son, the police did not blame me. In fact, they called me an ambulance and took my statement at the hospital.”

“Okay, then everything will be alright. We don’t need any type of magical law enforcement. I’ll make some calls, see if Dean Fogg can help-“

“There’s…more, Curly Q.”

There was only so much Quentin could take, dammit. He really needed his dad to stop with the earth shattering long enough to stop overwhelming him.

He took a deep breath and let it out.

He would really need a cigarette after this.

“What else is there, dad?”

“So many things just happened so fast. I ran into that man’s widow at the hospital. I just felt so guilty. I offered to help with funeral costs. She kept telling me that I was so _generous_ and _kind._ I felt sick. We talked for over an hour. The next thing I know, I have not only agreed to go to the funeral-”

“Dad, no.”

“-but also volunteered to help find their estranged son. Apparently, his older brother died in a car accident a couple of years ago, and now their entire estate goes to him.”

“Jesus, Dad!”

“What else could I do?! I **killed** the woman’s husband! I killed this boy’s father! He deserves to know.”

Ted pulled away from his son and looked him in the eye.

“I am dangerous. I am out of control, and I need help, son.”

“I’ll get you help, I promise!”

“You do that, Quentin. But I also need another favor.”

“Anything, Dad. Just ask.”

“I need you to find this son. The last time she saw him was when he ran off to college, but that was something like five years ago. They have not heard from him since.”

Quentin nodded, and pulled out his phone. Depending on how traditional this guy’s name was, he might be able to find him on Instagram.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes. Her son's name is Eliot Waugh.”

Quentin felt his heart race as he dropped his phone with numb fingers.

* * *

Comments and Kudos = Love!

* * *


	2. Cookies of Evil and Exploding Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Ted go to Eliot's childhood home, and Quentin meets his mother. She offers milk and cookies.
> 
> The Waugh family seems to love American cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: To establish Eliot's backstory, I had to allude to some child abuse in his past. I also vaguely hint at child neglect from Quentin's mother. All is very vague. Tread carefully.
> 
> A BIG thank you and many hugs to allergria23 and zelmane on Tumblr! They patiently listened to my ramblings on this chapter :)
> 
> Want to discuss my stories, theories, or obsess about Queliot with me? Find me on Tumblr! I'm lunaraindrop, and I would to hear from you!

* * *

Quentin stared at the drink before him. Condensation rolled down the chilled clear glass, making a race to see which drop would reach the cork coaster that protected the mahogany table first.

When he was little and his mom wasn’t berating him for breaking things, she would have the TV babysit him and put on movies while she locked her bedroom door. Most of them were Muppet movies, (he particularly loved _Muppet_ _Treasure Island_ ), but a couple were old live tapings of musicals. (How the hell she got old live tapings of musicals was still a mystery to him.) Anyway, one of those musicals was the 1960’s version of _Peter Pan._ At one point before she leaves, Wendy gives Peter a glass of white liquid that she says is his medicine, but it is actually poison left by Captain Hook. To save Peter’s life, Tinkerbell drinks the poison and nearly dies.

(More than once Quentin wondered if Tinkerbell would die if he just… didn’t…uh, clap? Honestly, it was a taped movie. How would him clapping help a past even? But since Quentin has forever been a believer of magic and didn’t want to be responsible for a fairy’s death, he always made sure to clap extra loud. His mother would always yell for him to keep it down through her door… Yeah, that was fun explaining in therapy.)

More drops rolled down to soak the round cork board, never touching the expensive wood underneath.

The table was a mismatched centerpiece in a stereotypical kitschy country kitchen. Everything was decorated in roosters, distressed pale wood, and American flags. (The little Margo voice in his head kept stating that Eliot’s homophobic parents sure did seem to love American cock. He really couldn’t argue with head!Margo, and kind of wished she was there with him to help deal with this situation. Part of him also wondered if Eliot had anything to do with this awful decor. Like maybe some type of inside joke.)

Quentin tilted his head and scrutinized. He was told that the white liquid in his glass was goat’s milk. It was made fresh on the farm.

Not pasteurized. Anything could be in it.

The woman that poured the milk didn’t look like Captain Hook. She was not wearing a red velvet cloak, and didn’t have a dastardly mustache to twirl. There was no great pirate hat on her head. Before him sat a demure bottle-blonde with Eliot’s hazel eyes and a “Karen” haircut. She was wearing a baby blue paisley house dress with matching Crocs. Quentin could just see Eliot’s disgust at the outfit in his mind’s eye. It would have made Quentin grin. You know, if the circumstances were a bit different.

_It is so weird that they both seem to like paisley. Eliot would hate that comparison, but it is hard not to see the similarities._

No hook in sight. She had both her hands, which she used to shake both his and his dad’s hands and carry in a plate of fresh oatmeal raisin cookies. For an older woman that looked so tall and gaunt, her arms rivaled Michelle Obama’s. It unnerved him. Like, how was that possible on a person? That would be like Slenderman pumping iron or something. He tried to not look at her limbs directly. Her hands were weathered and covered with callouses. She had a tired half smile that did not reach her eyes, for her eyes were full of grief. Obviously, she worked a hard life on the farm, and she missed her husband.

None of this necessarily screamed “villain”, but then again, Christopher Plover did not look like a pedophile, and Martin Chatwin would have been the last person he expected to be The Beast. Looks could be deceiving. Quentin did not think this Midwest woman was a Wendy, even if she was making herself out to be one. If Eliot hid his past to this extent and did everything in his power to keep this woman from finding him? Yeah, Quentin did not trust Brenda Waugh, or her milk and cookies.

Plus, oatmeal raisin? Something that looked like chocolate chip but was actually a mouthful of lies? If Julia were here, she would definitely agree they were probably the cookies of evil.

As his dad handed her a Kleenex, Quentin realized that he had checked out of the conversation again. Funeral arrangements. He had dreaded the very idea of discussing funeral arrangements for his dad’s death. Now that he didn’t have to do that, he and his dad should be calling Julia up and celebrating with a _Doctor Who_ marathon, a good bottle of red wine, and like a thousand tacos.

Instead, he and his dad are on some farm in-the-middle-of-fucking-nowhere Indiana, discussing funeral plans for his other best friend’s father. Who his dad accidentally killed. Because he has magic he can’t control.

Fuck.

This shit was like a really bad, poorly animated, straight to DVD Shakespeare adaptation.

It didn’t escape Quentin’s attention either that he and his dad seemed to be the _only_ people helping this woman with these plans. (Well, his dad was helping. He was staring at milk and wondering if Eliot’s mother was the type of person to try and poison them.) He had noticed quite a few people working on the farm when they drove up, and from what the woman said, her husband rented some small pieces of land to other farmers in the area. In short, the Waugh’s of _Waugh’s Family Farm_ knew people. And yet, there was no family in sight. No friends either to calm her tears. Brenda Waugh latched onto a man she barely knew for help.

Even under normal circumstances, this would be odd behavior. Okay, yes, his dad offered to help with the funeral, but who takes a stranger up on that? For all she knew Ted Coldwater had been assaulted by her husband, and had witnessed his -admittedly- violent death. In what universe does it make sense to invite the stranger and his son to her house for milk and cookies? (He purposely ignored Eliot’s voice in his head saying that he “bonded quickly”.)

Also, who the fuck serves milk and cookies when planning a funeral?! If Eliot were here (which by the minute he was getting more vehemently against him being here ever again), he would probably scoff and say that it is clearly time for something like Monte Cristo brunch sandwiches and gin martinis. Eliot always knew just the right things to do for any situation. Quentin has always admired that about him.

Clearly, Eliot did not get this skill from his mother.

Quentin felt a headache rushing to his temples. All of this was just way too fucking strange.

He was snapped out of his anxious revelry when his dad touched his shoulder. “Quentin,” he said quietly under his breath, “could you go and maybe get the lady a glass of water?”

While he was busy zoning out about childhood neglect and the probabilities of being poisoned, he completely missed the ugly-sobbing mess that was Brenda Waugh.

Yet another thing that she did not have in common with her son.

Of the times he had seen Eliot Waugh cry, there had always been some kind of masculine elegance to it. It was almost like every tear Eliot cried was a whetstone that sharpened his cheekbones and jawline. And, fuck. How was that fair? When Quentin cried, he got all blotchy and red like a tomato. Eliot just looked…beautiful. He honestly couldn’t decide if he was jealous or struck with awe. (Mostly struck, but he wouldn’t tell him that unless lots of alcohol was involved.)

Nodding to his dad, he got up and walked to the cupboards.

_Right. Just…find a glass. For Eliot’s crying mother. Easy._

Behind him, Brenda let out a pitiful, watery wail from Ted’s shoulder.

“OoOoH HERBERT, MY LoOoVE! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GoOoOo?!”

As Ted pat her shoulder and tried to comfort her, Quentin had to take a fortifying breath.

_Wow. That’s…so annoying._

He opened up the first cupboard, but only saw a large assortment of mismatching mixing bowls and measuring cups. He couldn’t give her water in a measuring cup.

_Stop it. Don’t be cruel. She is allowed to be upset._

He opened two more but only found old plastic Cool Whip and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! containers and what looked like a bread maker.

_She just lost her husband, and clearly uses butter containers as Tupperware._

“My precious Herb! How could he LEAVE me like thiiiis?!?”

Quentin’s jaw tightened and his fingers squeezed the cupboard handle almost painfully. He took a deep, slow breath through his nose, and let it out with a hum through his lips.

_It doesn’t matter that he was a **raging** homophobe that punched my dad and probably made Eliot’s life a living hell. Like, why would **that** matter? _

He opened another cupboard with broken ceramic rooster figurines. He almost closed the door, but something caught his eye. Unlike all of the others that matched the kitchen’s Americana decor, this particular one stood out. It was a perfectly fine-looking cookie jar of a Japanese rooster. Long glossy tail feathers that looked more at home on a peacock curled around the base of the sign it sat on. The rooster itself had wild pluming feathers on its head and back and was painted vibrant colors of the rainbow. It was also wearing a little purple waistcoat.

He felt his eyes burn and hands shake.

There was nothing wrong with it. It was a beautiful piece of functional art. It belonged in the middle of that beautiful table.

Instead it was shut away, hidden, in a dark cupboard.

_Was this what Eliot’s life was like at the farm?! Or did you just shut away anything that would remind you of him? Where you this upset when your son never came back? Huh, Brenda?!_

He wanted to scream. He wanted to drown out her irritating howls. Instead, he calmly opened up another cupboard and found coffee mugs and plates. That would do. He searched for the most chipped mug and filled it with luke warm tap water. (No sparkling water for her.) He imagined thunking the cup so hard that it would shatter and splash the woman in the face…but he didn’t know the whole story. While Quentin knew Eliot had a shitty childhood, he had never told him he grew up on a farm in Indiana. He never really talked about his family, so he didn’t know if Brenda was a piece of shit mom, homicidal, or just really annoying. Or all three.

Plus, that was a really nice table.

So, he grabbed another cork coaster and gently sat the mug in front of her, pretending that he was trying to take care of _Eliot_ instead of his mother. His dad nodded his thanks, and he convinced her to take a drink. She took small sips, broken by painful whimpers.

In any other circumstance, Quentin’s own heart would hurt at the sound and he would have tried to help the crying person in any way he could. This was…different. At each sob the woman let out, he could only feel stabs of brokenhearted anger for Eliot mounting inside his core. Even though he tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t make himself feel sympathy for her. So, he focused on her eyes, imagining another face housing them.

He was going _full_ Severus Snape...mmm hmm, bitch.

After she calmed down, she and his dad went back to what appeared to be what they were talking about before. Brenda pulled a large white binder towards her, opened it to a numbered tab, and showed Ted what was in the folder.

“These are Herb’s instructions for when he died.” Herb Waugh had been a very particular man. He had every detail of his death planned to the letter. He wanted to be cremated, but he also wanted a headstone. His ashes were to be spread out over the farmland so he could always be a part of it. In his words, “It will always be mine.” His headstone was not meant to be in a graveyard. Instead he wanted a small portion of his ashes placed in a sealed Budweiser can, and have that buried on the small hill on the property that overlooked _Waugh’s Family Farm_. He “wanted to keep an eye on it.” That’s where the headstone would go.

On some levels that was almost romantic or transcendental, in a literary sense. Mr. Waugh wanted to become one with the land, and always wanted to watch over his farm, even in death. However, the _wording_ he used throughout his notes are what gave Quentin a cold chill. It sounded more sinister. Like Herb Waugh planned to become the land _itself_ , and planned to haunt anyone that tried taking it over.

He has seen haunted shit, okay? He has met fucked-up ghosts. He really didn’t like the idea of this man becoming one.

_I need to remember to look up spiritual cleansing rituals when I get back to Brakebills._

Ted’s eyes narrowed and he pointed to something on the page. “Wait, I think there may be a typo on this?”

Quentin leaned over to look at the page. It was a mock-up print out of what Herb wanted his headstone to look like. It became glaringly apparent what his dad was talking about.

Herbert John Waugh

1960 - (Year of Death)

A Man of God

Loving Husband to Brenda

Loving Father to Nathan

“…what about Eliot?”

Ted and Brenda turned towards him. Quentin had not even realized that he had spoken that aloud. The words had just popped out before he could hold them back.

But, he found, he didn’t _want_ to hold them back. His voice becoming stronger with barely restrained anger, he asked again.

“What about your **other** son, Eliot was it? The one I’m supposed to find for the funeral? Why isn’t **his** name on here?”

Instead of looking ashamed, or even confused, the woman had the audacity to look surprised.

“Oh, I thought you knew! Herb almost disowned him. I’m sorry, Quillen.”

He almost yelled at her but stopped when she folded her hands in her lap. She looked beseechingly at him.

_Is she about to tell me what happened?_

She was.

“It is a very… delicate subject, is all. My Eliot was a troubled boy, and disillusioned. Herb really tried to get him to walk the Lord’s path, but he was just so stubborn!”

She shook her head and bit her lip. She seemed to choose her words carefully. “There was an…incident, with a boy on the soccer team...”

Brenda pursed her lips, then wailed almost like she did earlier. Except this wail was joined by the flair of fire in her oh so familiar eyes. “We just wanted to get him some help! There was this special therapy camp we were going to send him, like a good health retreat. But nooo, he refused to go! Instead he disappeared for five weeks! Five weeks! Everyone in town searched high and low for him. He was on the news and everything! The police even questioned Herb and I for murder!” She stopped herself with a whimper, took a breath, and wringed her hands.

“Eliot showed back up the day after his eighteenth birthday. An officer told me he just walked up to the police station like there was no trouble at all. He had been covered in mud and said that he got lost in the woods while camping, and wanted to know what day it was. That boy **hated** camping! He said when Eliot realized what day it was, he re-requested a POLICE ESCORT! He brought police to our porch and **demanded** to get his things! He was moving out and would not tell us where. Herb was itching to beat his ass and not let him in, but with the police there…his hands were tied.”

She took a sip of water, completely missing Ted’s horrified face and Quentin’s seething anger. “I can’t prove it, but I think he was hiding out in our neighbor’s barn. I left some sandwiches and bottles of goat’s milk out there, just in case. They were always gone by the next night. I still don’t know where he stayed for the rest of high school. He somehow finished with honors, and moved away for college.”

The woman sighed and picked at the corner of the binder. “Nathan had done some digging for me, and found out that Eliot went to Purchase College in Upstate New York. Just in case that will help your search, Quinlan.”

She shrugged. “He picked his path, and that was away from his family. So, I just let him go. I didn’t try to contact him. I didn’t try to visit him. Herb was all for disowning him, but when Nathan died, I talked him out of it. This farm has been in the Waugh family for generations. Without Nathan, there is no one left to leave it to.”

She touched her hand lovingly on the binder, making Quentin want to puke.

“So, Herb redid his Will, but held off on redoing his headstone until Eliot came back.”

All three were quiet for a long time. The sound of the refrigerator running filled the room with an eerie electric hum. Quentin could faintly hear some of the farmhands calling out to each other about feed and soybeans, like their employer did not just drop a huge bomb. He knew there was a clock nearby by the mind-numbing tick-tocking, like the clock was shouting every curse and cuss word on the planet for him.

In an instant, the glasses of goat’s milk exploded into thousands of pieces.

* * *

Comments and Kudos = Love!


	3. Telekinesis: A Trait They Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but a very important chapter.
> 
> Sometimes the biggest revelations come during great pain and sadness.  
> Sometimes we can't control our emotions, and we scare ourselves with what we are capable of.  
> Sometimes we are unaware of being garbage human beings.
> 
> Oh, and Quentin gets a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's talk folks. I know I should be putting out the next chapters of 'Let This Promise [...]' and 'Apollo Kindle'...but this would not leave me. (Another HUGE thank you to zelmane and allergria23 for listening to me ramble about this plot bunny that would not leave me alone.)
> 
> After doing some research, I realized this was a season two canon divergence instead of the originally stated season one. In saying that, I decided to change a couple of plot points that I may or may not reference in the story. So here we go:
> 
> 1.) Alice did Niffin out, but she didn't try to attack Eliot and Margo. She just left. That means that Quentin never used his cacodemo demon. Because Alice was not dead, The White Lady granted Quentin's wish to make her human again. Hating that Quentin was the reason she lost all of that power and knowledge, she told him to never talk to her again. She left Brakebills to join up with The Library.
> 
> 2.) Julia did get pregnant, but it was Richard's baby. She had the abortion, and Kady was there for her through it all. Reynard is still a problem, but not *that* problem. Julia will still get her powers, but for different reasons.
> 
> 3.) Speaking of pregnancy, Fen doesn't get pregnant because this all happens near or right before Margo gets the living clay to make a golem of Eliot. No golem = no pregnant Fen. No fairy deal.
> 
> Want to have a lovely chat? Have any prompts or requests? Come find me at lunaraindrop on Tumblr! :)
> 
> Kudos and Comments = Love <3

* * *

Everything was happening in slow motion. The three occupants of the room (and the walls behind them) were covered in a milky arterial spray and tiny pieces of glass. Quentin had flinched at the explosion, but had not moved away from the table. The non-projectile white liquid that was left flowed ominously across the dark wood surface. It rolled over the lip of the table, filling the grooves of the stunning hand-carved ivy border and soaked his lap with lactic acid.

Quentin still did not move.

He didn’t blink.

He was lost to the room around him.

Quentin could hear a shrill shriek and a small wheeze, and felt a chair scooting across the linoleum under his feet. All of that seemed so far away though.

Everything in his very being was focused on something far away. Somewhere, out there, there was this spectacular man. His amazing, _beautiful_ best friend had given up so much after going through such hidden hatred and pain. And yet, he was still so _brave._ Eliot still had such fucking kindness in his soul, even if the bastard would refute anyone challenging his aloof reputation. All Quentin wanted to do was run. Run as fast as his average legs could carry him. Run even faster if he could. Out of this god forsaken house. Out of this stupid farm. Out of motherfucking nowhere Indiana…

…and straight to Eliot. All he wanted was to get his arms around him as fast as humanly possible.

To smell his highly expensive aftershave on his skin.

To hear the rhythm of his dancing heart.

To feel that he was warm, safe, and okay.

That he was fucking _alive_ after all of this.

…

No.

Fuck that.

He _needed_ Eliot.

He needed one Eliot Waugh in his arms, and right fucking **_now_**.

He was drowning in it, like the goat’s milk was a poisoned ocean that was trying to swallow him whole.

His milk-soaked body didn’t move from the table.

His arms ached and felt cold and empty…and is eyes widened.

_Holy shit. Holy fucking shit! Those feelings are…umm, kind of **not** platonic? How did I fucking miss that?!_

He was freaking out. This was the single **worst** timing in the universe. Who figures out that they might be in love with their best friend like this?!

_Oh, wait. This is me we’re talking about. Of course I would find out covered in possible poison goat’s milk while my dad is uncontrollably shattering glass to kill your fucking dumpster fire of a mother._

But it was there, cutting his chest from the inside out, for his heart was shattered just like the glass. Tears were starting to mix with the white droplets on his face.

If he couldn’t be at Eliot’s side, then he at least desperately needed Margo _there_ with him. The Mike Pence worshiping shit-stain of a women that _dared_ to have their Eliot’s perfect eyes would be eviscerated right now if she was. His dad could relax. Nobody would survive messing with Eliot on Margo’s watch.

Instead, he and his dad were the only ones there. Two emotionally unstable Coldwaters in a battlefield. Judging from the glass and milk mess, his dad had been angry. But the way he could faintly hear the man ask if Brenda was okay in such a dulcet tone let him know something.

Ted Coldwater was _afraid_.

Quentin could understand. After all, didn’t his dad just-uhh- accidentally make two glasses of goat’s milk burst into smithereens? This _was_ just days after he dropped a sign on this woman’s husband. If Quentin were in his right mind, he would be terrified too.

His dad was _dangerous_.

The escalation and lack of control of his powers were becoming a huge fucking problem. Yeah, Quentin should be trying to do something about that. A diversion, of sorts. Maybe a distraction from what really happened.

Unfortunately, his brain broke around the time Brenda said, “ _special therapy_ ”. He was reeling from what could be the **biggest** revelation of his life concerning the son she abused. There was only one distraction his mind could even come up with, and it involved the anger he had tried to suppress. As much as Quentin would like to help, he would have to catch up with his anxiety over his father’s erratic powers later.

Margo wasn’t here to protect Eliot…but he was.

He slid his chair back with a loud screech, letting it bang into the floor.

“WHAT THE **FUCK** , BRENDA?!”

Both of the older adults looked over at him in various degrees of surprise and concern. (Ted leaning more towards concerned.) From what he could tell, Brenda had been cut by one of the bigger pieces of glass. There was a medium sized slash across her forearm, and a rather bloody shard sitting on one of the coasters. Ted’s hand was hovering above her wound, in an obvious attempt to help. The tip of his middle finger was red with her blood.

_He has her blood on his hands. Is this going to turn him into Lady Macbeth?_

Ted instantly went to Quentin’s side and started checking him over.

“Oh God, Curly Q, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Quentin trembled.

He knew his dad was probably terrified that he hurt him too…but he couldn’t reassure him yet. Not while he was looking at Eliot’s mother and wishing his dad had made her explode instead.

Brenda just blinked at him with those _eyes_. It was the exact same look Eliot got when someone was crying and he had no idea what to do to make them stop.

_Bewildered. The make the same face when they’re bewildered._

It was so…unfair. How could he hate someone so much that looked like someone he…someone he…

_Shit_

He felt the fire drain from him, only to leave an immense hollow sadness.

The whole thing just fucking sucked.

Quentin’s next words were whimpered, and they choked in his throat.

“Jesus! Just… _why_? Why would you do that? How could you do that?”

She blinked at him but seemed to understand.

“Oh, Quilten. I’m sorry that scared you, but I’m fine! See? Just a little scratch. I’ve had worse cat scratches.”

Okay, maybe not getting it. At all. Maybe missing the point entirely.

She walked towards the sink and grabbed a rooster themed kitchen towel. “That is the LAST time I buy glasses at the dollar store, I tell you what!” Shaking her head, Brenda stooped down and opened a cabinet door. Pulling out the little green trash can, she bustled back to the milk-soddened table. Gingerly, she swooped the glass with the towel into the can.

Ted extended his hand.

“No, let me help you-“

She tittered at him.

“Oh, please! Ted, I’m a big girl that’s raised boys and farm animals. I can clean up a mess just fine.” Looking at the blood piece of glass through, her brow pinched.

“Ten years ago it was ceramic animals, and now drinkware? Those corner-cutting cheapskates. Someone is going to get really hurt and sue someday.”

Quentin thought back on the broken rooster figurines in the cupboard. He could only imagine just how they broke.

Right.

Eliot.

Who once had uncontrollable telekinetic magic.

Just like Ted.

_I really need to sit them down together and talk about this sometime._

When all this freaking tragic nonsense his dad got tangled in was over, maybe he could take his dad to Fillory. For the first time in what felt like hours Quentin felt like smiling. The very idea of his dad getting the chance to see _Fillory_ made his broken heart mend just a little.

And the idea of him meeting Eliot…

He felt his breath stutter.

_Oh._

_Oh, I really want that._

The very idea of the two men sitting together in his childhood home, drinking wine and eating from some fancy cheese plate Eliot put together made him feel warm and dizzy.

His dad could meet Eliot. Sure, he could meet all of his other new family…

…but he could meet _Eliot_.

The two of them had something in common.

He didn’t know he wanted that as badly as he did. It nearly knocked him over with amazement.

_I didn’t even really think about introducing Alice to Dad. Fucking **Alice** , who I was supposed to be in love with! Jesus! ... Holy shit, I’m a colossal idiot._

At that moment, the chorus of _Shake It Off_ blasted from his soaked pants. He forgot his phone was in his pocket. Praying to whichever god was listening that his phone was not ruined by goat’s milk, he wiggled the phone free. An unknown number was calling him.

“Uh, hello?”

“Hey, asshole. Where the fuck are you?”

Quentin pulled the phone away from his ear and side eyed it in confusion.

“Penny?”

* * *

Kudos and Comments = Love! <3


	4. Dreams, Destroyers, and a Dildo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a few months before Ted accidentally killed Mr. Waugh. 
> 
> Eliot remembers the infamous threesome in a dream. What can be surmised by it?
> 
> Fen goes to Margo for help.
> 
> Oh, and there is a dildo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank yous to allegria and zelmane! I adore you both so much for hearing all of my crazy ideas! In particular dear Zel wanted to make sure Fen got her dildo. As promised, she got it!
> 
> Oh, and if you noticed, another ship has been added! What do you think of the added Fargo?
> 
> Want to discuss Queliot with me? Want to give me prompts? Want to just say hello? You can find me on Tumblr at lunaraindrop! Come visit me!

* * *

A few months before Ted Coldwater killed his father, High King Eliot was having a dream of a memory that usually alluded him during the day...

* * *

_Quentin was almost desperate in his kisses, writhing naked in his lap. His hands couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted to tug the shirt off Eliot’s body, or just softly touch every part of the infatuated man under him._

_“Eliot.” He groaned against his lips, before opening his mouth and diving back in. He was acting like a beautiful drowning man, seeking Eliot’s mouth like he held the only sweet air._

_Eliot, an altruistic, (when he wanted to be), was more than happy to save him._

_His hand gripped the back of Quentin’s neck and massaged his hip. The effect seemed to ground his little high-strung friend. That was good, because Eliot couldn’t decide if he wanted to soothe whatever was making Quentin think he had to hump him like a rabbit on Adderall or grind his trapped dick up into his thigh._

_Both. Both was good._

_Their kisses slowed, becoming languid and deep. Their mouths, hands and touching bodies became a sanctuary of sensual burning, something unfathomable and profound compared to the raging inferno Q and Margo had started. Eliot briefly dragged himself from the magnetic pulls of Quentin’s mouth, only to gently nibble and suck at his exposed neck. Quentin, very much on board with the attention, thread his fingers in Eliot’s curls to hold him in place. Eliot pulled away again to press their foreheads together._

_“Q, baby, what is it? What do you need?” He squeezed the back of his neck and pecked at his lips again. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I promise. Just tell me what you need.”_

_He meant it too._

_While Eliot was delirious with lust for this precious man in his lap, he was just as delirious, if not more, to throw his entire being into giving Quentin Coldwater whatever he could possibly desire. He never expected to get the chance, and now that the man was naked in willing literally in his lap? Oh yeah, Eliot was going to give it his all to make his brain melt and see fucking stars after having the best set of orgasms of his **life**. He was a little disoriented, so he just needed Q to tell him how to do that._

_Quentin whimpered and pressed his forehead against Eliot’s. “You.”_

_Eliot…did not expect that answer. He figured Quentin might ask to fuck him, or have a very enthusiastic blow job at least. Instead he said he needed…Eliot himself._

_Well, that was certainly an ego boosting yet confusing twist._

_Quentin pulled away and cupped Eliot’s face in his hands. The look he was giving him pulled at his very core. Warm, wide eyes obscured by light brown fringe looked at him in nervousness and wonder._

_“I just-Oh God, I just want…Eliot, I **need** you. I need you so bad it hurts.”_

_Eliot could feel it. Something was happening between them that went so much deeper than two drunken friends about to fool around. Margo was whispering something filthy in his ear that was drown out by the staccato beating of his heart. As Q pet at the seams and buttons of his shirt, he felt like Quentin’s sturdy, incredible fingers were attempting to peel away all of his carefully made protective layers._

_He was so scared._

_He was terrified._

_He was so… **hard**._

_He felt himself panting. At some other time and place he would probably run from this._

_Sex? Sex was easy. He was a **God** at sex. _

_Quentin didn’t sound like he was just asking for sex, though._

_That should have him pulling the breaks on this…but he didn’t want to make this stop. Not when he could feel that they were on the precipice of… **something**. The idea of standing in front and facing that large **something** with Quentin… It was scary. It was terrifying. It was …_

Oh shit, this is like one of those motherfucking adventures he’s always going on about, isn’t it?

_Sex with Quintin Coldwater was going to be fucking adventure. He could see it. He could **feel** it. He was usually not up for an adventure unless it involved a spa and a well-stocked bar. But it was in their connection. It was thrumming in his veins. Q was a drug that was pumping his adrenaline. _

_Or maybe there was more to it._

_Maybe he wasn’t the only drug? Maybe bottling up their emotions too long was a drug too. Maybe what made Quentin and Margo horny made him brave instead?_

_Quentin whined and gazed at him with dejection. “El…? Is that-uh, not okay? Do you not want-“ He could not let him finish such a fucking ridiculous sentence. With his hand on his neck he pulled Quentin the scant inches that parted them and passionately attacked his mouth, drawing some contented muffled moans._

_Of course he wanted. How could he say no? The very idea of walking away from Quentin right now was just…unbearable. How could you look into those eyes and not want to kiss that adorable idiot?_

_That’s when he realized something._

_In that moment he knew that he could deny his Q nothing._

_He was hooked._

_Undoing the first top buttons with barely shaking fingers, Eliot laid back on the bed. Above him Quentin was backlit by the ceiling light, floppy hair illuminated like a halo. His breath moved his chest in distressed whimpers, like Eliot moving away was too much for him to handle._

_Jesus. To be wanted so much by Quentin Coldwater. To be his fixation. It was a heady feeling._

_That was something Eliot realized he **needed** too._

_He tried to appear alluring and confident, but could feel nerves making tiny cracks in his mask. At the last button, Eliot open his shirt and laid himself bare._

_“Then have me, Q. I’m yours to take.”_

_Eyes wild and almost feral in awe, Quentin trailed his fingers from Eliot’s cheek, across his heart, and settled on the trail of ticklish hairs below his belly button._

_"Eliot, y-you're mine? Really?"_

_"Yes. All yours, baby. Now-" in an unintended opposite mirroring he smoothed his hand **up** Quentin’s chest, circled a nipple with his index finger, and cupped his trembling jaw. "-tell me what you want."_

_Quentin didn't even hesitate. He leaned forward, bracketing his forearms next to Eliot's head, locking their eyes as he gasped at the feeling of his pretty pink cock rubbing the soft skin of Eliot’s belly._

_"I-uh, shit, I want fucking **everything**. Please, I want everything from you, El."_

_Oh, he made the right choice! This was so intoxicating and frankly addicting. He was becoming possessive over being what a needy Q needed. Things were going to be so awkward after, but Eliot honestly did not care. Let him have this. Let him be Quentin’s air. Let him be his drug too. Fuck, let him be his favorite security nerd book. Just for one night. Just for one night let him be what he wants…what Quentin needs._

_His lips curled into a Cheshire smile. He brushed them across Q's own. "So… take fucking everything, sweetheart. Leave nothing left of me. Plunder my depths. Ruin me for other men."_

_Quentin looked back at him in wide-eyed edginess and curiosity._

_"You think I-I can **ruin** you, El? Really? You're okay with me trying?"_

_Eliot was mainly a top but did occasionally like a good hard fuck. As much as he craved the idea of screwing the adorable man above him into the mattress, he also loved the idea of Quentin Coldwater being inside of him. Maybe he could have both?_

_He shared a look with Margo over Quentin’s shoulder. She had been hovering outside of their little bubble like a beautiful, lethal guardian angel. She knew about his…crush on Quentin. They were about to begin what the history books would probably say was the most **epic** threesome known to man and Gods, but she understood what this meant to him. This was his one chance to have him. _

_Bless his Bambi, she knew what he wanted to do. She snuck behind Q and quietly unzipped his pants and slid them and his silky boxer briefs down his legs._

_Feeling more confident that his dick was now free to call the shots, he looked up with a wicked grin._

_"How about this instead?" In a practiced move, he cradled the back of Q's head and shoulder, hooked his ankle around his leg and effortlessly flipped their positions. Now Quentin was pinned to the bed. Eliot settled between Q's spread thighs and rolled his hips, savoring the feeling of their naked cocks rubbing together. Quentin cried out and gripped at his back, begging him to do it again.  
Eliot leaned down to kiss the man, all the while slowly, sensually grinding them together. "How about we take turns ruining **each other** , and I claim you as mine right back?" He placed soft sucking open mouth kisses from his mouth to Q's ear. With his careful layers pulled away, Eliot let his secret longing out. "Do you want me, Q? Please say you want me too. Can we belong to each other?" _

_His eyes were pools of melted chocolate. Quentin kept opened his mouth in soundless movement, but he seemed to be struggling with words. Finally, he frantically nodded and gasped out. "Uh huh! Yeah. That. Let’s …do that! We can belong to each other." Quentin reached for him and Eliot surged into his waiting arms like a crashing wave._

* * *

“Then have me, Q. I’m yours to take.” Eliot whispered in his sleep. He nuzzled his pillow and hugged it close like a child might with a favorite teddy.

…

Or like a grown man would with his lover.

From her side of the bed, Fen looked over at her sleeping husband. He had retired early, claiming a headache after the meeting with High Queen Margo and the advisers, (and another failed attempt at the alcohol he called “sham-pain”. It bubbled so badly that they had to dump it in another world!)

When she brought up some dinner, she found him fast asleep in their bed. Part of her wanted to wake him up to see if he would finally have sex with her again, if nothing else than to perhaps make a baby.

It had been at least a couple of months since she and Eliot last…touched. If not for the very… _generous,_ vibrating Earth gift from Margo (she named it Legolas, how fun is that?), she surely would have gone crazy. “Legolas” might not have been as large as Eliot’s dick, but it was pleasingly girthy! Oh, and it vibrated! That was a very nice surprise!

While she missed the intimacy of another person, she kind of liked that she didn’t need anyone else to have pleasure. It made her feel more independent, and-and powerful! And maybe a little sexy? She often found herself smiling and walking with an extra swing in her hips after using her “personal massager”.

(She has profusely thanked the high queen many _many_ times for the incredible gift. And, well, she had maaaybe called out Margo’s name…during… But it was completely by accident! It was just because Margo bought her the gift that satisfied that her so much. It had **nothing** to do with Margo telling her how to use it **_in detail_** … or teaching her the traditional Earth dance “bump & grind” … or accidentally touching her soft breast…)

No, absolutely nothing.

But at seeing the dark bruises underneath her beloved husband’s eyes, she decided that conceiving an heir could wait.

No, Fen had more pressing matters.

Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible, Fen pulled on a frilly blue dressing robe and reached into the bedside drawer for her hidden pocket knife. It was her design, a knife disguised as a decorative floral comb. She was quite proud of the invention. Innocently tucking her hair into the piece, she tip toed to the door. Fen winced as she turned the ornate golden knob and the hinges gave a loud creak.

Maintenance was definitely needed for the royal chambers.

Not wanting to risk waking her king with the loud sounds, she ducked out of the small opening she had made. At least the door was more quiet on closing. When she turned around, she frowned at the long expanse of hallway.

There were no guards in sight. Not a single servant walked the halls.

She had been noticing the lack of security for some time now. When she first came to the castle, she could admit that she was blinded by all the new and amazing things that had happened to her.

Her new home was gorgeous! Oh, how she had dreamed as a little girl to live in the castle!

She was a queen! Being in her position, she could truly help her people like never before.

She was married to the _hottest_ man that she had ever seen, and he was soooo good in bed! Ember’s balls, she had been blessed!

Part of her duties to her country was to have babies! She couldn’t wait to be a mother, so that was also a dream come true.

It took reality setting back in for all that glittered to lose its shine.

The castle was beautiful, but full of shadows and even shadier people.

She was a queen…but she had no real power. All the power lied on the shoulders of her high king. All she could really do was suggest things.

Eliot was handsome and quite talented in bed…but he was not attracted to her that way. She feared having sex with her was becoming more of an obligation for him, if his dreams had anything to say on the matter.

And as much as she loved the idea of having a child with Eliot, did she _really_ want to bring them up in such an unsafe place? With the lack of a secure watch, the guards were practically inviting kidnappings and the assassinations of the high king and high queen.

As she made her way down the corridor uninterrupted, she feared that maybe that was a _plan_. After all, she had once been a FU Fighter, and their main objective was to have a Fillorian on the throne. What if they had a mole in the castle?! (Not an actual mole like Fredrick that worked in the West rose garden, but a _human_ mole. Then again, maybe the FU Fighters recruited an _actual_ mole to seem less suspicious. She was going to have to question Fredrick in the morning…)

Fen picked up the hem of her nightgown and scurried a little faster.

When she reached the door, she was relieved, then horrified to find it unlocked. Looking behind her real quick to see if anyone had silently followed, she hurriedly entered the room.

At the sound, Margo instantly sat up and looked towards the door. She rapidly twisted her fingers to produce an orb of light. She flicked it into the air. Finally being able to see Fen, she rolled her eyes.

“Fen? What the fuck. What time is it?”

Fen wandered her way to the foot of the bed and awkwardly crossed her arms. “It’s, uh, still nighttime?”

Margo gave her a deadpanned stare. “How ‘nighttime’ are we talking?”

Fen winced. “The middle of the night?” She answered like a question, if only to fend off some of Margo’s possible ire.

There was definitely some ire. “Why the fuck are you waking me up in the middle of the night?” She seemed to wake up a little more and sassily ogled her in the orb light. “If I didn’t know for a fact that you couldn’t cheat on Eliot, I would say this was a booty call.”

Fen frantically waved her hands, even as she felt herself blush. “No no! Not a booty call!”

Margo lied back on the bed, but suggestively winked at her. “Too bad. You’re pretty cute, and I’m awake and bored. That marriage clause of yours is such a buzzkill.”

Fen fidgeted, not exactly sure what to do. “May I sit down?”

Margo waved her hand at the foot of the bed.

“Yeah, sure. Take a load off. It’s not like I’m going to be sleeping or fucking in it any time soon.”

Fen felt flustered. Margo had been having that effect on her for some time now, and her making comments like that didn’t help matters. She glued her eyes to high queen’s face and tired valiantly not to look down her low-cut nightie. She needed to stay faithful to Eliot. Speaking of Eliot… “Umm, I did have something serious I needed to talk to you about.”

Margo sighed at the word “serious” and rolled out of bed. Walking over to one of her vanities that she turned into a minibar, she poured herself and Fen two goblets of what smelled like pink apple rum. After handling Fen her cup, she artfully settled against the down pillows by the headboard. “Okay, out with it. I’m all ears.”

Fen played with the fringe on her dressing robe. Now that she was here, she wasn’t exactly sure how to broach the subject. She wasn’t used to taking the lead on important matters. It was a bit nerve-wracking! What she was going say in this room this very night could change many lives, including her own. Her words could cause panic and start wars. That was a lot to process! Still, she pressed on.

Feeling vulnerable, she looked to the high queen underneath her lashes. “Margo, we’re friends, right?”

Looking a little caught off guard, she shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, sure. We’ll call it that. I don’t just buy anyone a vibrating dildo.”

Refusing to get tripped up in discomfiture, Fen pressed on like Margo had not said anything. “And friends don’t lie to each other, right?”

That made Margo pause and take a measured sip of her rum. “Sometimes they do, especially if they care about not hurting each other’s feelings.”

She put the goblet down on her end table and shrugged. “You’re lucky that I usually don’t care.”

This heartened Fen. “So…you would tell me the truth if I asked you something? Even if you think it might hurt me?”

Margo narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “What’s this about, Fen?”

Fen bit her lip and twisted the frilly fabric between her fingers. “You didn’t answer my question, Margo.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t fucking answer mine.” She crawled to the end of her bed and sat next to Fen. Taking the goblet from Fen’s other hand, she placed it on the tiled floor and came back up to fully take in the woman before her.

“Is this something you couldn’t talk to Eliot about?”

Fen timidly nodded.

She leaned closer, dropping the volume of her words.

“Is this _about_ Eliot?”

Fen nodded again.

Every bit of teasing melted off Margo’s body and replaced itself with focused significance. Fen had learned early on that Margo always took anything to do with Eliot seriously.

Good. She needed that.

Margo looked Fen dead in the eye.

“Listen. Eliot is my best friend. If this is something against Eliot then I’m not taking your side.”

This time Fen shook her head.

“No, this isn’t against Eliot. Well, I don’t think so? Hopefully it’s not? I mean other people would probably feel that way, but I don’t-“

Margo lifted an eyebrow. “Is that about Eliot liking dicks more than vag? Fen, honey, I thought we went over this.”

Fen’s eyes widened and flailed her hands and feet, kicking the goblet over on the floor.

“Oh dear! Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up!” She quickly let go of Margo’s hand and quickly took off her dressing robe to stop the rum from soaking the nearby rug. Sopping up the spill on the floor, Fen didn’t realize that she was actually a little cold in her shoulderless silk shift until Margo magically lit the fireplace. She flinched in surprise at the act and looked towards the high queen. Still sitting where Fen left her, Margo was looking at her in exasperated fondness.

“I could see your nips through the silk, and since they look like they could cut glass, I figured a fire was in order.” She helped pull Fen back onto the bed and smirked at the other woman’s rosy cheeks. “I also could have gotten a towel, but that robe was hideous, and we should fire whoever made it for you.”

Laughing, got up to get her neglected goblet. Plopping back down the fun in her eyes dimmed at Fen’s continued nervousness. “Okay, so you were **not** talking about Eliot’s love for cock?”

“Well, no…yes? Kind of?”

“Well that narrows it down.”

Fen fell back on the bed with a grown. “This isn’t easy for me, okay?”

Margo tilted her head, looking like she got an idea. “Okay, I hear ya. Let’s make this easier then. This is about Eliot?”

Fen sat up. “Yes.”

“Alright. Does this have anything to do with Eliot’s dick?”

Fen started to falter. “Eh, kind of-“

Margo groaned and seemed to wipe her spoken words out of the air. “Okay, none of that confusing shit. Let’s try again. Does it have to do with Eliot and _a_ dick?”

Fen perked up a little, but didn’t say anything. This caused Margo to snap at her. “Well?”

“It was another kinda-sorta answer, and I don’t like to be yelled at.”

Margo softened a bit. “Okay. So, this has to do with Eliot and maybe a dick. Did he use the dildo I got you?”

That made Fen mad. “He better not have! Legolas is mine!”

Margo just snickered. “Okay, okay, the sexy elf cock is not the issue.”

Fen lifted her chin. “I keep it with my favorite knife collection, so I think I would know if someone tried to use it other than me.”

Mellowing and regaining both the fond and serious looks from earlier, Margo took Fen’s hand again.

“While it was kind of fun to see you so rattled, I’m getting the picture that this might be some serious shit. So just say it. Don’t try to make it ‘sound right’. Sometimes the best way to say something is to say it bluntly.”

So, Fen did. She took a breath and squeezed Margo’s hand.

“Margo, my friend. Is my husband in love with King Quentin?”

Margo sat back like she had been slapped. For once she seemed speechless. After a second the only thing she mustered was, “Dafuq?”

Fen’s eyes widened.

Margo didn’t say no.

If it wasn’t at least partially true, the high queen would have laughed in her face. Fen said it again with a sad smile. Quieter. More softly.

“Is Eliot in love with King Quentin?”

Margo shot up like a rocket. “What the fuck, Fen?! Where did you hear that? Has that fucker Tick been spreading rumors again? I will gut him with a rusty shrimp fork-“

Fen slowly stood up and took Margo’s hands. The latter almost looked like she was going to yank her hands away from Fen, but thought better of it and gripped them tight. “Listen, Fen. Eliot is married to **you**. He is loyal to **you**. You are both bound to this marriage and to Fillory itself. El would not cheat on you. He literally _can’t_ cheat on you.”

Fen’s eyes were growing misty, even as she smiled. Bitchy or not, Margo did seem to care about her feelings. She knew how much she loved her husband.

But she also sidestepped her question, which was an answer in itself.

“He talks in his sleep, you know?”

Frowning, Margo nodded. “Yeah. He does that when he’s stressed. El once sang the entire _Buffy_ musical during a nap after finals.”

Fen continued to smile as Margo led her to sit by the fire.

“At first I just thought he missed his friend. He has said your name a few times, so it just made sense. I thought it was kind of cute then. I mean, he has you here, so he can’t really miss you. But then…he said it every other night. Sometimes like they’re in the middle of s-sex. Other times he calls out to him like his heart is breaking. I’ll admit, I was jealous. I mean, I’m his wife and he has never said my name like he says King Quentin’s. I have actually woken him before just to try and seduce him!”

Margo leaned forward. “But something changed?”

Fen laughed quietly while wiping a tear from her eye. “Yeah. _I_ did. All of my life I have been prepared to one day marry the high king. I love my people and my country, and I really _really_ want to be a mother.”

She squeezed Margo’s hand. “But I love Eliot too much to keep him away from true love. So-“

Fen took a deep, stuttering breath and straightened her shoulders. She plastered on a huge grin.

“So, I ask you, High Queen Margo the Destroyer, to help me find a way to destroy the enchantment that holds our marriage.”

Instead of looking upset or possibly incredulous, Margo looked… intrigued? “Do you really think we can? I thought that was a big thing with Fillory and Ember.”

For the first time that night, Fen avoided the other woman’s gaze.

“There was a whisper, from one the mice that lived in the castle’s archives. She said there were ways. At the time I was happy with my marriage and didn’t think to ask what ways.”

“Then why can’t we ask her?”

“She died three months ago.”

“Son of a clit. Did she say where we could find this information?”

“No clue. Just in the archives.”

“Of course. I end up being a queen of a fantasy kingdom and I have to do fucking research.”

Fen smoothed her hand over the material of her shift. “There is more.”

Margo lifted an eyebrow. “More than trying to get you magically divorced so my best friend can _bone_ my other best friend?”

Dammit, Fen was flustered again! She cleared her throat. “If we do this, I will no longer be royalty. The **only** kings and queens will be Children of Earth. There are factions out there bent on killing the Children of Earth to put a Fillorian on the throne-”

Margo sat ramrod straight at that. “Wait, the fuck did you just say?”

But Fen barreled on “and there are literally no guards guarding the halls- “

“Those LAZY FUCKERS!”

“-and if we’re not careful, it could ruin everything! People could die! It might cause civil unrest, or-or even war!”

Something predatory and bloodthirsty crossed Margo’s face in the flickering light of the fire. Her answering grin promised mischief and danger.

“Oh, Fen, honey. There isn’t anything to be afraid of. You came to the right woman for the job. This shit is going to be fun.”

* * *

Comments and Kudos = Love!


	5. Eliot hates 90's Alternative music and is in need of a fiddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is woken by Margo and Fen and learns of the danger they are in.  
> He also realizes that someone might be catching feelings.  
> Oh, and his morning wood wants everyone to know who he's hard for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! This chapter is another instance of a much bigger one broken in to smaller, bite sized pieces. I do not wish for you to choke. ;)
> 
> I will update the tags, but see if you can catch the Fiddler on the Roof reference.
> 
> As always, a BIG thank you and all the hugs to my dears zelmane and allergria!  
> You can thank zelmane for her word suggestion of 'coup d'etat' and Margo's playful wink.
> 
> Also, thank you nonny for your song suggestion of The Power of Love by Celine Dion. I am curious if you just like that song, or if that is for a ship. What do you all think? Tell me in the comments!
> 
> I am also going to do a 31 Drabble/Fic Challege for the month of October! Want to be a part of the fun? Message me a word I must use in my drabble/fic @ lunaraindrop on Tumblr!
> 
> Comments & Kudos = Love!

* * *

Eliot tilted his head in confusion and alarm.

"It’s so...small. Should it be that small?"

"No, El. And in this case, size really does matter."

The two of them stood next to Fen under the high vaulted ceiling of Whitespire's armory. Or, what Eliot thought more realistically, what **_should_** be Whitespire's armory.

What should have been rows of swords, bows, arrows, and other weaponry was a wide expanse of bereft wall with lonely little pegs and hooks. Only one section near the corner held any sharp items, but from Eliot's calculations they could be for no more than fifty people. He had honestly seen a more varied selection of long pointy things at an adult toy store.

This didn't include any armor like chainmail, shields or helmets, of course. Silly him, those were stored in the next room. Instead of gleaming steel emblazed with Fillory’s crest, there was beat up metal that had spots of rust. Even if all of the best pieces were put together, the armory did not hold enough equipment for twenty people.

With everything he had learned that night, Eliot felt like he might throw up. He touched his throat and wheezed out what was on his mind.  
"We are sooo fucked."

Now before he had gone to bed that night, he would have just looked at the lack of weapons and shitty armor as a minor problem. Fillory might be having magical brown-outs and a recovering agricultural issue, but they were at peace. Weren’t they? He would have continued to think that if not for being woken by a fretting Fen and a fuming Margo.

\---

“El? Eliot, come on. I need you to wake up right now. It’s important.”

Eliot could feel the dregs of sleep leaving him, and he honestly did not want to wake up. He was having a _very_ pleasant dream involving Quentin and his enthusiastically talented mouth sucking him off, but now the erotic sensations were fading and being replaced by Margo’s voice in his ear.

“My King? I’m sorry we have to wake you, but we have to do this before daybreak.”

Make that Margo _and_ Fen. Ugh.

He was too sleepy to be embarrassed by the whine he made when Quentin’s warm mouth and soft touch vanished away. “No no, Q come back…” but it was to no avail. He was awake. And in Fillory. And High King.

And married to his sweet, kind…very _female_ wife. (Who might not be thrilled if she heard him calling out for his other best friend in his state…)

Margo snorted.

“Ah, so that’s what you mean. He really does this every other night?”

Did he detect judgement in her tone? He would have to remember that the next time she waxed poetic over Catherine the Great and her **_love_** for horses.

Fen pulled at his blankets (avoiding the tent his morning wood made, he noticed), and folded them down by his shins.

“Sometimes more than that. I think it has actually been three days in a row.”

Eliot felt incredulous.

_My god, are they actually bonding over my wet dreams?_

Margo leaned close and lightly shook his shoulder.

“El, you can think of fucking Quentin later. We have serious shit we need to discuss.”

Waking up more fully, he realized a couple of things.

  * He has been talking in his sleep again.
  * He has been telegraphing that his dreams were often about his favorite little high-strung nerd.
  * His _wife_ knew about that enough to tell Margo, _his_ best friend and High Queen.



Trying to go for an English dandy-cool as a cucumber- devil may care- affect, Eliot gracefully rose out of bed with his head held high. He shot a teasing smile towards Margo, but purposefully avoided Fen’s gaze. “It was actually a memory of that one time we got drunk and Quentin’s mouth accidentally found itself on my junk. Funny how dreams work. You said important shit needed discussed, yes?”

Eliot turned away from the two women and opened his wardrobe. While he had no issues whatsoever with Margo seeing his dick (she had seen it many times before), and he literally had to screw Fen to consummate their marriage, the idea that Fen _knew_ he was hard for Quentin made him feel nervous (she is the knife maker’s daughter).

…And okay, maybe a little guilty. Thinking of Q’s compact body and kisses made getting hard all too easy. Fen, the actual person he was married to? Yeah, that’s another story.

He held up two of his dressing robes and decided on his black and gold embroidered one. It made him look more regal, and the black would help hide his sizeable cock while it died down. He tied the belt loosely and faced his High Queen and…friend that he was married to? New platonic life-partner? No, that was Margo’s place. Wife-ish person would have to do.

Margo looped her arm through his.

“Honey, let’s go take a walk. I think you’ll see what we’re talking about.”

Fen fiddled with the door and the three of them made their way to trapes around the castle. It took him all of a minute to realize the problem.

The halls were completely empty. The only movement came from their shadows from the flickering torch lights. Something was very eerie about this picture.

"Uh, Bambi, where are the castle guards?"

By the satisfied yet completely pissed look on her face, he knew they were on the same page.

"Oh, I'll tell you where they are. Asleep or nonexistent! The security in this castle is a joke. It is a miracle that we have not been beheaded or kidnapped on our way to take a piss in the royal toilet!"

For what he gathered from his female companions, they had both woken up sometime that night only to discover that nobody was guarding the royal bed chambers.

Eliot looked at Margo, then Fen, and then at their surroundings in apprehension.

"Asleep? The detail that is supposed to protect the royal family is asleep?!"

Sure enough, they rounded the corner and found three guards propped up in the kitchens with empty pint tankards at their sides.

His people were getting smashed without him?!

With ale?!

On duty to protect them?!

Seriously, with the shitty Fillorian ale?!?

_I’m not against partying, but on your own time people! And with quality liquor! This “ale” smells like bottom shelf swill that my thrice-damned father would use to grease a tractor._

Eliot shivered at the mere thought.

The implications were terrifying. How long had this been going on? Since they’d been crowned? How many nights had he let his friends stay in a castle so unsafe? How many nights had he gone to bed before Fen, leaving her alone to walk the corridors? He’s watched _Game of Thrones_. He knows what kind of violent shit can go on in castles at night. Any one of them could have been maimed or murdered. Especially himself.

Eliot looked over at Margo. His sweet Bambi. She was a warrior queen that could put Cersei to shame, but what if she had been asleep? What if some sleaze had tried to sneak in her room and…? It made him sick just thinking about it.

What if any one of their friends were attacked…or worse, because he was not paying attention to the lack of security?

He felt his stomach lurch.

What if someone had tried to hurt _Quentin_? What if someone had tried to, _oh God,_ assassinate him?! He was a **king** of Fillory! If anything happened to he or Margo the kingdom would go to **him**. That put a large target on his back.

_I put a large target on Quentin and Margo’s backs. I put my wife in danger._

Eliot leaned heavily on the kitchen wall while Margo and Fen looked at him in concern. He pushed off the wall and went back to the corridor. Fen followed and tried to soothe him with kind words he wasn’t really hearing. Margo, on the other hand pushed his flask into his hand and told him to drink.

So, he did.

He took a couple good swigs before he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against stone.

Why was being king of a fantasy land so hard? Why couldn't they just throw balls and get drunk every day? Why did he have to deal with frat boy guards that couldn’t hold their ale, and the possibility that he was failing the people he cared about?

He composed himself.

“Right. Well, they’re fired. We’re going to call a council meeting first thing in the morning and hire better guards.”

But apparently that was just one of their smaller issues.

_Fuck my life._

Margo side-eyed him, seeming to gage if he was okay enough to hear more bad news.

_Ha! I am nowhere near okay. But, unlike the Three Stooges in the kitchen, I have bourbon._

He shared a look with Margo before giving her a slight nod. She gave him one more troubled frown before soldiering on.

“Well El, speaking of our highly esteemed council, they let something pretty significant slip by.”

Eliot perked up slightly. This sounded like gossip. He always loves gossip. He and Margo practically made it into a sport the way they volleyed rumors back and forth. Game on.

“Oh, do tell.”

Margo led their little group in the direction of the armory. Fen was actually the one to filled him in.

Fen was joining the gossip ring? He couldn’t help it, he was actually a little proud.

“There is a group that calls themselves the FU Fighters- “

Eliot held up a hand and tried really hard not to laugh. After all the guilt and fear he had just been through, he was not expecting to hear about a 90’s alternative group.

“I’m sorry, who?”

Margo snickered. “Yeah, I laughed too.”

Fen continued on. “Sorry, Fillorians United. FU Fighters is their nickname. I hate to tell you this, but they are a faction of Fillorians bent on killing the Children of Earth to put a Fillorian on the throne.”

Eliot rubbed at his temples. There was a headache coming on.

“Fillory has terrorists? Of course, why not?”

He pulled his hand away from his face and turned to Margo.

“Hmm. Strange that _we_ have not heard of them. What else is our esteemed council hiding?”

“Exactly what I thought, El. Fen has even more fun surprises that they have forgotten to mention.”

Which led them to the armory.

\---

“So, our own people are trying to kill us, and we have no weapons? That is so French.”

The three of them went back to Margo’s chambers to discuss a plan of action. They might be the rulers of Fillory, but it was obvious that their “royal advisors” were trying to keep Eliot and Margo in the dark.

Fen also told them the complete truth about how she used to be a member of Fillory United. If he knew anything about Fen, he knew she loved her people. He didn’t feel betrayed like she thought he would. If anything, he was mildly surprised at her knowledge of knife fighting and guerilla warfare. She even excitedly showed off the knife comb she made to hide in her hair.

He married a badass.

He also could not help noticing the way Margo kept sneaking fond glances at her. He knew from the first week of being high king that Margo was attracted to Fen, but this was…different. Back then they at _length_ talked in the privacy of her bedroom about how she wanted to take his naïve, trusting, tender-hearted bride, put her in pretty dresses, and eat her pussy until she screamed. (And she made fun of him for his taste for first-years? Hah. Silly Margo. She really was his platonic soul mate. He had said something very similar after the first time he saw Q. He still thinks he would look amazing in a smoking jacket. She knew it too.)

But as Fen gushed about her knowledge of knife making, he could not help but notice how Margo sat close to her, or how she draped one of her own dressing gowns over her shoulders because “Sweetie, your nips are about to cut through that silk. Those must be painful.”

_Wait. Margo’s not offering to cup her breasts to make them warm? She’s wanting her to cover up, and letting her wear one of her favorite robes?_

_Jesus Christ. I know what this is! I just didn’t expect this to happen…_

Margo was doting on Fen. Fuck, she was taking _care_ of Fen. Margo doesn’t take care of people…

Unless she loves them.

_Fuck._

Margo was catching feelings for his wife. Who, while he truly cares for her, he does not love her like that.

_Yay. We’re a YA novel’s love triangle. Oh, what a fucking tangled web we weave._

Eliot took a deep, cleansing breath and pressed his palms together.

“Alright. We need a plan before we call the meeting. I want to be fully prepared to bulldoze Tick and Rafe when they try to sweep everything under the rug.”

Margo got up and paced her room like a caged jaguar. “They could try to deny the existence of the FU Fighters. Fen, you’re going to have to speak up if they try that shit.”

Fen looked surprised.

“Y-you want _me_ to address the council?”

Margo rolled her eyes, but Eliot could see the corner of her now painted lips curl up.

“Duh. You have just as much a right to speak up as any of those stuffed shirts do.”

Eliot agreed. “More than. You are a native Fillorian with firsthand knowledge of this group. You are also married to the high king, and seemingly the high queen’s new favorite. If anyone should speak, it’s you.”

Margo raised an eyebrow at him, and he smiled back at her. Oh good! She caught that “Favourite” reference. He was hoping she did. They both loved that movie. Olivia Coleman truly earned her Oscar.

_Hmm. Fen is blushing. This is fun. I wonder if “favorite” means something in Fillory?_

“F-favor-? Oh, umm, what do you mean?”

Margo beat him to the punch. She stopped her pacing to give her shoulder a gentle rub.

“He just means that you and I are becoming close… _friends_. You meant it when you said we were friends earlier, right?”

Fen brightened up like a star.

“Ooh! Yes! We are friends. I am so thankful for your friendship; you have no idea, Margo!

Fen’s eyes widened and she flailed her hands.

_Well well. Does my wife have a little crush? Do I get to play matchmaker? Oh! Should I bribe Penny to bring me a fiddle?_

“Eep! Sorry! My Margo-My Queen!”

Margo laughed. “Easy there. I think I’m liking being your _friend_. And Fen?”

She leaned close to Fen’s ear and whispered loud enough for Eliot to hear.

“I like it when you call me Margo. Call it out anytime you want. Save ‘My Queen’ for court and worship.” She playfully winked and turned back to him, leaving Fen flustered.

Her face shifted subtly when their eyes met. She didn’t lose the playful edge, but he knew that was a mask. They were both champions at wearing masks. Thankfully they could almost always see behind each other’s. Eliot could see the serious question she was silently asking. _“Is this okay?”_

Was it okay? That…was complicated.

He and Margo were no strangers in sharing bed partners. But this wasn’t ménage-a-fun in Encanto Oculto. His best friend could very well be falling for his wife. Said wife was a monogamist and had the misfortune of being locked into a political marriage with him. There were serious magical ramifications if either of them cheated. Fillory took fidelity _very_ seriously. He could lose his crown. They could lose their _lives_.

But Eliot was two very important things:

  * Clever
  * Selfish as fuck



He bet with a little research and careful choreography, they could figure out how to make this all work. If he could tweak the water filtration spell and a warming charm to give him his own raincloud for his shower, he could figure out how Margo can fuck Fen without any of them exploding.

Well, exploding in non-orgasmic ways. So messy.

As for being selfish…his biggest secret fears were being forgotten and dying alone. (Though it would take a lot of Adderall and enough vodka to fill a hot tub to pull those out of him.) If Margo and Fen became a thing, then she would want to leave less.

Also, if they could figure out how Margo and Fen could have sex with each other, maybe he could find a nice hot fool to keep his bed warm.

Honestly, he was a disgusting human being, terrible best friend, and a horrible husband for thinking these things…but he makes it a point to own up to his character flaws. They give him charm.

Plus, what Bambi wants, Bambi gets, so was their really any question as to how he would answer?

Eliot opened his arms to Margo, inviting her to sit in his lap. Of course she snuggled right in.

“You don’t mind me flirting with your wife, do you?”

He shrugged and smiled, but made sure to let the weight of his real answer show in his eyes.

“If Fen wants to be flirted with, I can’t think of a better person to do it. Myself included. I feel that I neglect my poor wife too much.”

Margo happily bounced and hugged him close.

“Good! I was hoping you would say that. We have some actually fun and possibly magic challenging stuff to discuss after this shitfest.”

“I’m intrigued. Anything to take our minds off of this mutiny.”

“El, we’re in a castle, not a boat.”

“Coup d’etat then. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Yes. In fact, if things go hairy, I might do a spell to make everyone sing something from the _Les Mis_ soundtrack.”

Eliot happily gasped. “Margo! Have you been holding out on me?”

Margo wrapped her arm around him. “Maaaybe. I know how much you love singing Jean Valjean’s parts.”

“Hey you two!”

Eliot and Margo both focused back in on Fen. She looked mostly over her fluster, but slightly agitated. Like a schoolteacher trying to call down naughty kindergarteners. Was she trying to get their attention? Oops. They did it again. At least she didn’t take out her knife comb. She would make a terrible Javert.

“Sorry, we tend to get sidetracked when musical theatre is brought up.”

“Alright. We’ll be good. Let’s plan how we’re not going to die and how I’m going to tear Tick a new one.”

* * *

Comments & Kudos = Love!


	6. A sword for Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made by Eliot, Margo, and Fen on how to deal with their problems. Oh, and apparently Fen knows how to make swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BAAAACK!!! Whew! While this chapter may be a little on the short side, I didn't want to make you all wait anymore. October One-Shots and my Tumber series of stories really put my longer stories on hold. I am hoping to turn out a few chapters for those stories soon!
> 
> Tags have been updated! There is a new ship on the horizon. Thoughts?
> 
> As always, a big THANK YOU and many hugs go to zelmane and allegria for dealing my crazy, random plot bunnies. :)
> 
> What do you think? Let me know!
> 
> Kudos and Comments = Love!

* * *

A little while later it was Eliot who paced the floor. Fen poured herself some more pink apple rum as Margo planned her “murder” outfit.

Eliot stopped his trek in front of Margo's wardrobe. “We don’t know who to trust. For all we know there might already be an assassin in our guards’ ranks. Anyone assigned to replace the royal family guards could be waiting for an opportunity like this to get closer to us. Who hires the guards?”

Margo looked over the pants suit she was holding up. She was leaning towards a black and cherry low-cut pants suit that made her breasts look amazing, and also made her look like a dangerous assassin herself.

“El, who do you think?”

He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes in aggravation.

“Fucking Tick.”

Margo nodded and laid her suit out on the bed. “The shit brick mostly employs his family. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try to kill us outright, but I wouldn’t put it past him to just hire some distant nephew without doing a background check.”

Fen used her goblet to point to the two of them. “Oh! You need someone else to do the hiring for you! Maybe one of your Earth friends?”

She took a sip, before giving Eliot a sweetly mischievous grin.

“What about King Quentin? He does seem to be a _favorite_ of yours.”

Eliot stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his wife.

“Are you…teasing me about my Quentin dream, dear wife?”

She scrunched her nose. “Dream? My king, let’s be honest. We share a bedroom. There has certainly been more than one.”

Margo positively cackled. “Oh burn, El! She’s got you there.”

Eliot wanted to be irritated, really, he did. But he could not help huffing a laugh. With most of the pressure to sex-up his wife taken off of him he found her so much more fun to be around. Walking over, he hugged Fen, then pulled away and grasped her shoulders.

“Did we just become friends? Like real ‘not-obligated-because-we’re-politically-married-and-forced-to-spend-a-life-together’ friends? I think we did. Friends tease each other-“

“-about who the other one loves?” she said with a cautious yet happy smile.

He couldn’t help it. He startled. Then froze.

Eliot was not used to being…seen. There were only two people in his entire **life** that he trusted to see him, that he felt he could be vulnerable with and break through his walls and bullshit.

Something in the night had shifted, because he realized he now had _three_.

_How the fuck did that happen?_

His anxiety must have shown, because Fen cupped his elbows and furrowed her small little brow in concern.

“…my king? …Eliot? Did that make you uncomfortable? Was that too far? That was too far, wasn’t it? You’re probably not ready to talk of your undying love for King Quentin with me…as I am your wife…That _is_ **very** awkward. Sorry! I should really stop talking now…”

Lost and overwhelmed, he looked to Margo. Seeing his distress she instantly put down the garnet jewelry she had been contemplating and wrapped herself around him, making him feel less vulnerable. Somehow, he was locked inside a cocoon of the two women that he was really lucky enough to have love him.

Margo looked around his bicep at Fen.

“No, sweetie. You didn’t say anything wrong. And yes, part of having a friend is teasing ever living fuck out of them when they are ass over tits over some book-loving nerd with floppy hair. The thing is, El and I are just not used to people wanting us around for who we are.”

Heartbreak and a fierceness he was just beginning to understand shined anew from his little friend’s eyes.

“I do! I **promise** I do. I like you both just for who you are.”

His mouth was too dry, but he wasn’t ready to break their embrace. He licked his lips, and decided to put himself out there. To let her know some of his truth.

“And that’s okay with you? That I might have…feelings for someone outside of our marriage?”

She and Margo shared a…dare he say _smug_ look? What the shit?

_Oh, these two will be **dangerous** together. God, I love it already. I really need that fiddle._

Fen bit her lip, seemed to look towards his high queen for reassurance, then squeaked.

“That is alright with me…Eliot… buuuut…would-it-be-alright-with-you-if-I-maybe-knew-of-some-information-that-could-break-the-magic-holding-our-marriage? And I asked Margo to help me break it?”

It had been a long time since Eliot saw some glimmer of something as elusive as hope on his horizon.

Eliot sputtered, looking to both women encasing him in fervent shock.

“Wait, we can do that?! I thought Fillorian marriages were, you know, permanent!”

Margo squeezed him and quirked her lips impishly. “Castle gossip says that a dead dormouse named Doris worked in the archives. Seems that she heard that you liked cock more than vag and wanted to offer Fen a way out of an “unsatisfying marriage”. Since Fillory doesn't have dildos she looked into breaking the spell. And as you know El, even the most outrageous of gossip-“

“-has some kernel of truth.” he replied in wonder.

He turned back to his wife, feeling the beginnings of manic glee filling all of his dark, depressed crevasses. A laugh shot out of his throat so hard it nearly knocked him over.

“Fen, I mean this with upmost respect. Please don’t take offence…but FUCK YES I want out of this marriage!”

Fen didn’t reply. She just slightly smiled at him and hugged him again. A sobering thought came to his mind, cutting the joy like a sword they didn’t have.

“Wait. If we figure out how to unshotgun this wedding, what does that mean for the crown?”

She winced. “That’s…the tricky part. You would still be high king because it is in your blood. I, on the other hand…”

Eliot finished with dawning apprehension. “-would be a commoner again. Which would make Margo and I bigger targets, and take away any protection being a Fillorian and royalty grants you.”

Margo interjected. “Yeah, that blows.”

He turned his head her way and played with her hair.

“Okay, so priorities. Deal with the ale drinking Muppet rejects-“

“-then the pubic lice that is our advisory board-“

“-while Fen addresses the 90’s band terrorist group problem and saving our asses-”

“-THEN we look into your magical annulment. Fuck, that sounds like so much research.”

“I know. I need like a handful of Adderall for all this. Being royalty should exempt us from this shit.”

Normally it would, he thought. They had a castle staff for a reason. At present they could only really trust each other.

It was decided. Any plan of not being married to Fen in the future would have to wait. Their lives and the fate of the kingdom depended on it.

With that thought he finally stepped out of their embrace. He stiffly pat Fen’s shoulder. “Okay. This is getting too Hallmark Christmas for me.”

Margo gently broke away and picked up her discarded jewelry. “Thank fuck. I was starting to get nauseated by the warm fuzzies.”

Fen sat back down and picked up the parchment list she had been working on. “So, was that a yes or a no for King Quentin for hiring?”

Eliot walked over and poured himself some of the rum, deciding to go for something lighter than what was in his flask. (Honestly, pink apple rum had as much actual alcohol in it as the butterbeer at Universal Studios.) “Hmm, I’m going to say no to that. Not that he isn’t a good judge of character. He’s frankly the best. I mean, he chose me for a best friend, the man has taste. But he’s also a King of Fillory. He is in just as much danger as Margo and me when he’s here.”

Fen stood up and started nodding. “Yes, but he has never been as visible as the two of you. The FU Fighters might not recognize him.”

That’s when she had an idea. “Oh! I know! He can be your spy! You can dress him up as one of the guard candidates, and he can see if any of them try to recruit him!”

Margo shimmied in delight, two different types of chandelier earrings sparking in the low torch light . “Oh my god, El. We MUST! Can’t you just see Quentin in the guards’ get up? He can be our own Elf on the Shelf!”

The idea was way too tempting. It was really a win-win. For one, it was an excuse to bring Quentin there. For two, Q would be dressed up like a ridiculous Fillorian guard (and if he had the uniform trousers tailored _just_ right, Q’s ass would be framed so deliciously for his personal viewing enjoyment). And for three, Q would get to play spy! Everyone would be happy, and safer for that matter.

“Done. We can sell it to him by saying he’ll be Fillory’s James Bond.”

“God, he’ll cream his shorts at the chance.”

Fen, not actually knowing who the fuck James Bond is still giggled.

“If you want, I’ll even make him a sword and teach him how to use it!”

That drew Eliot and Margo up short. They shared a look. It was Margo that held up her hand. “Hold the phone, you know how to make swords?”

Fen nodded. “Oh, yes! I've made swords before. I used to help my father in his smithy.”

Eliot’s brow furrowed. “I thought your father was a knife maker.”

She actually rolled her eyes! Oh how he was loving her sassy attitude. Being friends with her was fun! “My father makes more than just knives, you silly gander! Knives are just his specialty. If you think about it, swords are just big knives. And I love knives, big and small.”

He looked over at Margo and could tell they both had the same incredible idea. He turned back to his metally gifted wife.

“And you’ve actually made a sword before?”

“Oh, tons! I could probably make a claymore in my sleep. Although I don’t think that’s the right type for King Quentin. Maybe something Elvin in design? We can go over some templates after breakfast, if you want.”

Eliot definitely wanted. While the mental image of spoiling one awed and overexcited Quentin Coldwater with his very own Fillorian sword would have been enough to sell him, there was a bigger matter at hand.

He felt the adrenaline thrumming through his veins, and could tell it was happening with Margo too. She was the one to address it.

“Okay, aside from the fact that our favorite little neurotic fanboy would be a danger to himself and others if ever given a real sword…Fen, sweetie, how long does it take you to make a one?”

Fen scrunched her nose, appearing to calculate.

“By myself? Maybe a week? If I have help it is much quicker. Maybe a couple of days?”

He couldn’t help it, Eliot tittered out a laugh.

“Well, that’s one problem fixed.”

Now Fen looked confused.

“What do you mean?”

Margo wore a smile that just screamed victory and future orgasms.

“Until this moment we we’re fucked if anyone tried to invade us because our armory is shit. Now though, we still have a shit armory, but we are lucky to have such a hot lady boss blacksmith right under our noses.”

Fen caught on quickly. Her eyes widened as she nearly dropped her cup. “You want _me_ to fix the armory? Will they even let me do it?”

Margo put her hands on her hips. “Who’s this _they_? Those secretive dickholes that could get us killed? I’m high queen, Eliot’s high king, and I say that if you want the job, you can have it.”

Fen teared up, but she was also beaming.

“Oh thank you! Yes, I want to prove myself. I want it so bad!”

Eliot clapped his hands together.

“So, it’s settled then!”

* * *

As the first sun started wash the dark castle grounds with pale golden light, the Spectacular, the Destroyer, and the Knife-Maker had finally finalized their plans. For the first time in hours the unholy trinity broke to take on their separate tasks.

The Knife-Maker ran off to prepare herself for addressing the council. (This included self pep-talks and discretely strapping sharp, thin blades to her thighs underneath her full skirt.) At the beginning of the night she had been so nervous and scared. Now though, now she was expected to be a leader and an expert in the trade she had been trained in all her life. She had to be confident. Everything depended on it.

The Destroyer chose slippers that day instead of her prized stilettos. A skilled thief, she discretely snuck up and stole an item from each of the passed-out guards. This would make for some pretty compelling evidence. After that she sashayed her way to the archive, hair tucked up in a pretty and familiar comb. As boring at it was, she had some research to do. Her best friend's freedom and her own future orgasms were at stake.

And the Spectacular? He lazily sent word with a passing servant to call a morning council meeting for after breakfast. On the outside he appeared his usual laissez-faire self, decked out in a regal plum colored suit embroidered with brilliant silver tread. Nobody would guess that he was staging a coup. Tucked into his trousers was Margo’s gun. While he was adept at using magic to protect himself, she insisted he be armed with something the medieval Fillorians would not expect. He didn’t feel like arguing.

As he calmly walked to the throne room in view of all the now bustling staff in the halls, he carried a scroll of paper that had his quickly sketched ivy patterned hilt design he made for a very special sword.

For Quentin **would** be getting a sword, despite what Bambi said. He could totally take credit and call it his Christmas gift.

Eliot couldn’t help but feel a little thrilled as he reached his throne. Things were shit, but for the first time in ages he felt alive.

* * *

Kudos and Comments= Love


	7. LoTRs Bonding, Decent Breakfasts, and Well Deserved Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Eliot is expertly preparing for the oncoming political storm, he orders some breakfast, designs a hilt, and reminisces a time when life was easier. A time when a certain Fillory fanboy made him have a movie marathon at Brakebills.
> 
> Margo is confident and has a bag of goodies.
> 
> Fen is nervous, but consults a special friend to help her feel better about addressing the council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely folks! Here is another chapter! It was originally going to be longer and include the council meeting...but it was already getting too long. Plus, I hate making everyone wait. :)
> 
> Of course, a BIG thank you to zelmane for listening and bouncing ideas. If you like the extended LoTRs memory and what will come after of that night in a later chapter, you know who to thank ;)
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Comments and Kudos = Love!

* * *

Confidently sitting on his throne, Eliot waved and elegant ring-covered hand to gain a servant’s attention.

“Hi there. Send a message to the kitchen steward that there has been a change of plans. Queen Margo, Mrs. Me and I will not be having breakfast in the dining room this morning. Sooo busy. Instead I want some hot peach buns and the freshest fruit delivered here. Post-haste. Chop chop.”

The servant gave a hasty bow. “It will be done, your Majesty.”

Eliot felt himself grin as he made a few artistic changes to the hilt drawing. Unable to completely erase the dark chalk he started with, the king used a purple piece to retrace the parts he liked, and to draw the new design. Ultimately Fen was the expert and would be the one to make the final prototype. Still, while Eliot was not a sword maker, he was an artiste. He might be commissioning Fen to make his friend a sword, but he wanted there to be no mistake where the gift came from. When Quentin held his sword in his stouthearted hands, Eliot wanted him to think of him. To do that, he had to make sure the design was just right.

As Eliot hummed to himself, his chalk-stained fingers swirled and swooped graceful designs on the parchment. He always had a thing for the elegance of ivy patterns. When he was in high school theater, when he wasn’t the star on the stage, he was either creating costumes or making and painting the sets. One of his particular favorites was a rose trellis for the Capulets’ balcony for _Romeo and Juliet_ in sophomore year. While it was fun to mix creams and reds and pinks to depict the bursting blooms of horny hormonal teenagers, the best part was giving everything his artistic stamp of beautiful ivy. It was one of his design trademarks. Also, his dad hated ivy with a passion. Said it was a weed that choked his land. (He often said that while looking directly at Eliot. Yeah, he got the metaphor. It didn’t help that he went as gender-bent Poison Ivy to the church’s Halloween party when Nathan was Batman. Still, he won the costume contest that year. Naturally. And converted the costume into his Peter Pan outfit for the play the following Spring. Peter Pan that year was an ivy-covered dream, if he did say so himself. Which he did.) The point is, what’s more perfect than to tastefully decorate with said plant?

Fen _did_ say that Quentin would probably like an Elvin type sword. He laughed to himself.

_Oh, Q would definitely approve._

Hindsight is a funny thing. There was no way back then that he could have predicted he would become a jaded king to what was presumed to be a fantasy world. Back then he was a self-medicating hedonistic second year, overly fond of this unbearably cute, maladjusted first year. How was he to know that that endearing bitchy brat would become one of the best friends he ever had? All those months ago, what had started off as a normal morning at Brakebills turned into one of the most cherished days of his life.

When he told Q that he had never actually seen the _Lord of the Rings_ movies let alone read the books, the high-strung super nerd squawked in his face.

Ironically enough, it was over breakfast.

_Quentin flung out his arm, narrowly missing Eliot’s cheek with his pancake breakfast taco in his dismayed exuberance. “How can you never have watched_ Lord of the Rings _, Eliot?! It-It’s…iconic!!”_

_Calmly taking Quentin’s hand, he redirected the sabra salsa-filled pancake away from his face and towards Quentin’s own mouth. He had just had his suit dry-cleaned, and he had worked too hard tricking his first-year friend into eating “a recipe he was trying out” for it to go all over his clothes. Mr. Studies-for-an-exam-for-two-days-without-taking-a-break-to-eat **would** be getting sustenance, even if Eliot had to hand feed him himself._

_For his part, Quentin begrudgingly bit at the taco, but not without locking eyes with Eliot. He was not about to let the nerdy injustice go._

_As he continued to hold his hand and eye contact, Eliot made sure Quentin took another couple of bites before letting go. He didn’t miss the surprised and pleased hum Q gave as he continued to eat. Could he be faulted his smarmy delight that he knew he would like it? If there was one thing Quentin liked, it was Mexican-inspired foods._

_Picking up his own, he took a bite and answered his friend. “Relax, Quentin. I don’t really have time to watch all of those movies, but I keep up with pop culture. I’ve read the wiki. I have an idea what goes on. Frodo gets a cursed ring, a bunch of hot men, a less hot Gandalf and an ugly dwarf go with him to destroy it. Some elves are in there somewhere, and Christopher Lee plays an evil wizard. Homoerotic subtext, yadda yadda, sword fights, blah blah blah, Frodo gets his finger bitten off by a jewelry obsessed Betsy DeVos look-alike that keeps talking about their “precious”. Then they all go sailing. The End.”_

_Quentin actually looked offended. His jaw hung slightly open, and his cute nostrils even flared. “That is…uh…wow…not even remotely close! Jesus Christ, Eliot! Like, aside from homoerotic subtext, Christopher Lee being in it, and, okay, admittedly Gollum **does** kind of look like DeVos…b-but the rest of that is bullshit.”_

_And that’s when a determined, hyped Quentin Coldwater literally dragged him into a movie marathon._

_“That’s it!” he said as his Adam’s apple bobbed in excitement. “I have to fix this. All of the extended edition DVDs are in my room.” Exhilarated, untamed brown eyes pooled their focus on him. Quentin huffed a singular laugh before poking Eliot in the breastbone. “And damn it, Eliot, we’re going to watch them!”_

_At the time Eliot had been amused (and, okay, valiantly trying his best to not grasp Q by the back of his neck and ravage him on the dining room table. They were just friends and consent is a must… but **God damn** did he want him). _

_But yes, amused._

_Like Quentin could make him do anything he didn’t want to. But it also made something in Eliot’s chest pleasurably squeeze. Quentin had been so lost and frustrated with his studies that he seemed…diminished. Seeing that spark of fire in his warm eyes gave Eliot a thrill better than cocaine. Seeing that wild Quentin-ness directed at **him** made all the blood n his body travel south to is interested cock. He knew sex was not on the table, but tell that to his libido when Quentin Coldwater was involved._

_“And when would we do this? Don’t you have class in like twenty minutes?”_

_Eliot expected Quentin to deflate a little and suggest maybe watching one of the movies on the weekend. To which Eliot would have to tell him that he already had plans with Margo. She would be back from her trip to L.A., and they had a standing date at their favorite Swiss spa._

_He would have never told Bambi, but at the time he had been a little disappointed at the idea of turning Q down. What would it be like, spending all that time close with an obsessive Quentin Coldwater? Would it be just as fun as he imagined? Better?_

_So, it was such a good thing that said Quentin Coldwater was always full of surprises._

_The unrelenting fanboy grabbed his sleeve and started tugging him towards the stairs._

_”Nuh uh. Don’t care. We’re doing this now.”_

_“Wait, now?!”_

_“Yeah. Come on, Eliot. Let’s go. Hobbits wait for no man.”_

_Eliot allowed himself to be pulled, but contemplated that._

_“Does that make me a man and you a hobbit?”_

_Instead of taking that as an insult Eliot didn’t mean it to be, Quentin stopped on the stairs looking thoughtful. He seriously sized Eliot up and down, then shrugged. “Hobbit makes sense for me. I am shorter and have big feet. You’d be more of an elf, I think?”_

_“Is that…a good thing?”_

_“Yeah, El. Elves are cool.”_

_Elves may be “cool”, but Quentin seemed very serious about the two of them spending hours upon hours watching a film series. Besides having quality time with Q, Eliot planned to get something out of this. After all, that was potentially hours of blue balls._

_“Okay. Let’s say I agree to this movie marathon of yours. What do I get out of it?”_

_Q had the audacity to give him a “duh” look._

_“Uh, watching one of the greatest set of movies of all time?”_

Ha. Brat.

_Eliot teasingly scrunched his aquiline nose and shook his head._

_“Hmm. Nope. I wouldn’t be missing just one class today. I’ve heard those movies are long. I would be missing all of my classes-“_

_“-You barely go to them anyway-“_

_“Hush, Q. Daddy’s negotiating.”_

_That made Quentin scrunch **his** nose._

_“That is so weird when you call yourself Daddy, just so you know.”_

_While he heard him, Eliot continued like Quentin had never spoken the last sentence._

_“I’m willing to play hooky with you…but for a price.”_

_Quentin sighed._

_“You want me to **pay** you to watch movies with me?”_

_Eliot loftfully laughed, throwing an arm around Quentin’s shoulder’s as they made their way up to the second floor._

_“Nothing like that. What I’m suggesting is more of…a trade? Yes, we’ll call it a trade.”_

_“What kind of trade?”_

_Two of the residence ran past them as they made their way to class. Eliot pressed a finger to his lips and waited until they were alone. Q looked intrigued. When they made sure the coast was clear, Eliot whispered into the exposed ear not protected by Quentin’s hair._

_“I need you for a little adventure, Q.”_

_Q shivered as he talked. Eliot thought to himself,_ Hmm, the boy **really** likes adventure. I’ll mark that down for later.

“ _An ad-adventure?” Quentin said, clearing his throat after his voice cracked in excitement. “What kind? What do you need me for?”_

Oooh, so many things. Many of them involving me making you moan a thousand ways to Sunday with your big feet thrown over my shoulders. _Eliot thought to himself. Out loud he whispered, “There is a special, sliiiightly banned fortune telling spell Fogg keeps locked away in a restricted collections room. He keeps the key in the top drawer of his desk. I can get the key, but I need someone to distract him.”_

_“…restricted collections room?”_

_Eliot hummed in satisfaction._

_“Yes. Almost like that Restricted Section in Harry Potter.”_

_Quentin pulled away, eyes wide._

_“Wait. You want **me** to-umm- help you steal a key so we can go to a room full of restricted magical things so you can get a spell?”_

_“Mmm hmm.”_

_“Uhh, well, yes. Of course! I’ll do that, yeah. But, uhh, why **me** , exactly? Why not Margo?”_

_Sometimes Quentin’s lack of self-esteem really hurt._

_“Margo is off having her L.A. escapade of debauchery and jewel thievery, and I was resigned to being bored until she got back.”_

_“Wait, jewel thiev-?”_

_“But now here you are, Quentin Coldwater, the most ridiculous, magic-loving person I have ever met, insisting on **not** learning magic to make me do something so mundane as watch movies.”_

_He pulled him close and momentarily squeezed him in his arms. “Is it so wrong for me to reward that delinquency with a little magical adventure for you?”_

_And that was all it took._

_The two magicians built this incredible blanket fort (after running back to Eliot’s room for more pillows and blankets). Then Quentin practically wrestled Eliot into a cuddle against a mountain of pillows in said fort, plied him with bags of Doritos, pizza rolls, and an okay bottle of red, and then spent hours giving him his own special brand of charming spastic commentary._

_“That language Aragon and Arwen are speaking? That isn’t just something made up for the movies. Tolkien was a linguist and loved languages so much that he created one of his own. It’s called Sindarin, and it’s based on Old Norse and Old English languages…”_

_“The guy who plays Gimli is also the voice of Treebeard. They went low-tech and got the sound by making him talk in his lowest register through a wooden megaphone…”_

_“Yeeeah…you’re right. That’s, ah- not tobacco. Gandalf the Gray is pretty much a stoner. Merry and Pippin are, uh, kinda high for a good portion of the movies? Gives a new meaning to second breakfast, huh?”_

_“Most of the horse riders in these movies are actually badass women, which is pretty fucking cool…”_

_“Oh yeah, totally obvious. Sam’s definitely bi and in love with Frodo. He’s also the real hero of the trilogy. Frodo might be the chosen one, but Sam’s the only one strong enough to stay and carry him through it…”_

_“I swear, all elves are just inherently hot. It’s not, like, fucking fair to us mere mortals.”_

_Eliot sighed happily, nestled close to his friend on a comfortable quilt in their soft, little fort. He hadn’t known at the time, but no party could compare to this. No drug or drink would ever make him feel the way spending time with this man did. Like the world could just fuck off and leave the two of them to their own devices. He learned that listening to Q talk about something he loved would become one of his favorite things._

_But as fun as it was to learn just how wrong he was about the movie trilogy, that had **nothing** on the adventure they went on later that night…_

His thoughts returned to the present, a little bittersweet. Yes, Fen was right. At least the Elves’ style from LotR was very art nouveau. If that was similar, then it would totally work. Ivy fit right in.

Continuing to hum to himself, Eliot got up from his throne and traipsed around the room, parchment and chalk still in hand. He wanted to appear lost in thought to his subjects, but he was anything but. He was paying careful attention to what was going on around him. After all, Eliot Waugh was a king of many things, including multitasking. After last night he was not going to take any more chances on safety. Without anyone paying attention to their bored looking king, Eliot could take a stroll around the throne room and subsequently ward each entry and exit way up the ass. Standing in each corner, he carefully drew a series of runes on his palm, before blowing the chalk onto the floor. The outline that graced his skin perfectly transferred to the marble of the floor. While people could walk in and out, only those he recognized could enter the room. No projectiles such as an arrow or attacking fire ravens could get through. One little tut of his handsome dusty digits and the room would be in lockdown.

He wasn’t an idiot, either. The drunk guards were in the _kitchens_ last night. Knowing what he did now, it made him roll his eyes. How obvious. Could their possible assassins be that obvious? There was a high probability that someone might have tried to poison his or Margo’s breakfast. Since being poisoned once in his life was enough, thank you, he decided to take precautions. Sending out for pastries and the _freshest_ fruit at such a short hour meant that neither would come from the kitchen. Breakfast this morning was supposed to be scythe rosemary steamed pudding and poached eggs. Not pastries. The royal baker would not have time to make any for their breakfast. Also, any fruit in the kitchen was at least a day old. To have both quickly, someone would have to go outside of the castle to a bakery and the market.

Perfect. Everything was going according to plan.

Doing a nonchalant cursory sweep of the shadows of the room, Eliot plopped back down in his seat. Going back to the parchment, he added a little extra curly q to one of the leaves with a pleased sigh.

Yes, Quentin was going to love the shit out of his hazardous little gift. Eliot was going to have to keep an incredibly close eye on the cute disaster boy with it, but it was totally worth it. He could almost see Q’s pretty pretty puppy eyes light up and crinkle in excitement. Why, he might even give Eliot one of his one dimpled smiles and half an hour of babbled fantasy sword trivia for all his trouble.

Thinking of Q though made Eliot’s grin dim.

Oh, how he missed his unbearably adorkable friend. It was nauseatingly embarrassing how much. (Really, he was shocked Margo had not cut off his tongue or his balls for getting so attached.) It really had been too long since they’d seen him, though. Dreams of fucking him didn’t count. He needed the real Quentin Coldwater there.

Yes, that was very selfish of him, with Fillory being a hot bed of danger that it was…

…but, honestly, the floppy haired boy _needed_ a keeper. Someone needed to be dedicated to make sure the gloomy puppy was happy, healthy, and eating regularly. Why not his best friend Eliot? Alice certainly made it clear that it wouldn’t be her.

Frustrated, he turned the parchment sideways. Something was not right with the picture. He took the tip of his ring finger and smudged one of the lines. There was artistic, and then there was tacky. He refused to ever make anything tacky.

His attention was caught by his queen entering the throne room. His runes subtly glowed a pale pink when she entered. Pale pink glowy meant they were working.

Margo glided into the room in perfect, _silent_ slippers. Holding her head triumphantly high, she swung a beaded bag over her shoulder.

_Ah, here be the evidence. Oh Bambi, what can’t you do?_

When Margo sat upon her throne, Fen walked in after her, taking her place to stand next to him as wife of the king. For what it was worth, Fen looked calm and only slightly nervous.

Eliot felt proud.

Somehow in one night Fen went from his quiet, subservient wife to this fierce femme super soldier that deserved the title of Queen of Fillory. He leaned in her earshot.

“You ready for this, Fen?”

She gulped hard, but straightened her shoulders. Leaning in, she spoke to them both under her breath.

“Umber’s saggy balls, no! I am terrified. But…I think I’ll be okay. I worked on my speech for an hour.”

Eliot furrowed his brow.

“But it’s been two since we left our little confab in Margo’s room?”

Fen shifted her eyes sideways and blushed.

“I may have consulted Legolas before coming here.”

Okay, fuck that, Eliot was _really_ proud! And to go off Margo’s genuine smile, so was Margo.

“Shit, that’s hot. Rubbing one out _right_ before putting these twats in their place? Talk about a power move.”

Looking a little less embarrassed, Fen giggled and even looked a little proud herself.

“It was really fun too. I feel like I could throw the twenty knives strapped to my thighs and not break a sweat!”

Eliot hummed, then kissed Fen’s cheek and Margo’s knuckles.

“Our little Fen is all grown up…and saving Fillory.”

Margo leered at her.

“Yeah, she’s gone from Cinderella to Full. On. Mulan.”

Not understanding the reference but smiling politely, Fen looked down at his drawing.

“Ooh! Is that a hilt design for King Quentin’s sword?!” She snatched it up in utter glee, getting some of the chalk on her fingers. “Look at that ivy detail! This would look perfect on a cutlace! Oh, this is so romantic! He’s going to love it!”

He didn’t have time to correct her on how that was **not** meant to be a romantic gift for his best **friend** Quentin. Just then, two servants briskly walked in with their hot peach buns and a basket of apples and plums.

Letting it go for now, Eliot felt his smile beam again. Their plan was in action. The sword was coming along nicely. And breakfast was delivered. Everything was falling into place.

Oh yes, his spirit was on the rise.

* * *

Margo fiercely stared down the room before her from her high throne. Her sinuous words curled on her tongue and tried to slip past her lips, but got caught on her wickedly sharp teeth.

“Shittiest. Security. Ever.” She hissed, addressing those in her immediate eyesight.

Below her stood their “esteemed” council and the three guards, the later hanging their heads in shame.

Oh, they knew they were all in trouble.

* * *

Comments and Kudos = Love!


	8. Pickles, Cereal, Grilled Cheese, and a Magical Tramp Stamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Ted accidentally killed Herbert Waugh, Penny was in need of some pickles. We get to see what happened before Quentin got his dad's news from Penny's pov. We find out what has happened and what is happening with other characters. We also get a glimpse at what happened in Fillory *after* Herb's death.
> 
> What the fuck is going on?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG thank yous to zelmane and allergria23 for guidance and listening to me ramble. This chapter started out completely different, but through them we have some more quirky weirdness. <3  
> (Julia eating sugary cereal was completely allergria23's idea, folks)
> 
> We are missing an interesting puzzle piece in Fillory. What happened after the meeting? What caused these turn of events?
> 
> Have theories? Message me on Tumblr @lunaraindrop
> 
> Commetns and Kudos = Love

_Still some time before Ted Coldwater accidentally killed Herb Waugh…_

Penny went to Mayakovsky to fix his hands. While the bastard lunatic did not cure him, he did at least tell him what he needed to get cured.

“Eat some pickles? Seriously?!”

“Yes.” The sallow beanie wearing man growled. He took a long pull of vodka before looking askance at the traveler.

“What? You expecting something big magic?” he said while lazily doing spirit fingers. “Fairy dust? Fillory moss? Some God’s cum perhaps?”

Remembering that, yes, he had gone through some fucked-up shit with a river guardian’s curse, and Alice had taken one for the team and drank Ember’s “essence”, he thought he couldn’t be blamed for thinking along those lines. Even when Professor Sunderland tried to help him it was with magical chains. _“Eat some pickles”_ just sounded way too easy.

“Okay, so. Just, like, do you have pickles here? Do I have to do some spell to make my own? What’s the deal?”

This is where Mayakovsky wheezed a laugh at him.

“Still thinking too big, Traveler! Stop using your head and start thinking with your dick.”

Penny’s agitation was growing. He waited for the professor to make some fucking sense, but when all his ice thin patience got was the shit stain snickering and drinking more, he shook his useless hands and yelled.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?! Was that a euphemism, because I am NOT sucking your sick ass cock!”

Mayakovsky’s face scrunched in disgust has he sluggishly waved Penny’s words away.

“Keep your half-witted mouth away from my dick. Idiocy can be sexually transmitted.”

“Great! Fine by me! Now, what the fuck did you mean? I need answers, goddammit!”

Mayakovsky accented laughter rang out again before he slothfully plodded to a seat at his heavy wooden desk.

“What my other mamby-pamby colleagues neglect is where your curse is centered. It might have been on your hands, but the curse is centered on the magic in your dick. Because **_you_ **were dick. What you need is cure for dick-related curses, not for the hands! Pickle! Vinegar! Salt brine!”

Penny impatiently stared at the other man.

“And…?! Where do I get them?”

Mayakovsky snorted inelegantly.

“Grocery store.”

Penny blinked…then blew up.

“THAT’S IT?! I have been suffering all this time, and all I needed to do was walk into a fucking Trader Joe’s for a jar of goddamn pickles?!?”

The defunked professor swirled the clear liquid in his bottle like a mini cyclone.

“No. Expensive, hipster pickles. Bronx Brines. Only sold in small markets around New York.

“Why only that brand?”

“Magicians make them, use hybrid of Earth and Fillory cucumbers. Jar will cure your dick curse right up.”

* * *

So that is how Penny found himself leaving Brakebills South to go on a fucking grocery hunt. The old bastard was right. Calling around he only found four stores that stocked Bronx Brine pickles.

Ironically, none of those stores were in the Bronx.

He was even more out of luck when three of the four store clerks told him they were out of the pickles due to some hot dog festival in Queens. It would be another week at least before they restocked. That left him with only one choice. _Ralph’s Bodega_ in Brooklyn.

Penny’s plan was to pop in, go straight to the pickle aisle, find the disgusting illusive fuckers (he hated the shit out of pickles), and force himself to choke down every one. Of all the things, there was only one jar of those pickles left. He would **literally** be damned if he didn’t get them. As he was reaching for the jar, his hand bumped into someone else’s. He felt his adrenaline rising.

Oh hell no. Those were **his** pickles. He didn’t care if he had to start a goddamn brawl over these motherfucking pickles. Just as he was about to quietly tell the other person to fuck off if they didn’t want trouble, he turned to look at the other person.

Woman.

_Kady_ **.**

**…**

For what it was worth, she looked just as surprised to see him. The tiny bodega was almost vacant when he walked in. Aside from the bored looking teenage goth cashier, he honestly thought he was the only customer. Yet somehow, they were both standing there, just the two of them, touching the same jar of fucking pickles.

The surrealness of this moment…of seeing _her_ again…

Even after everything; Her leaving…the radio silence…her breaking his heart…he stood arrested, jaw dropped at her beauty as she stammered at him.

 ** _Fuck_** did he love her.

Kady looked away, shifting her body. Instead of facing him completely, she slightly turned, presenting him more of her arm than her chest and exposed midriff. Her shoulders were stiff even as she flashed a seemingly relaxed smile. She had one hand on her hip, while the other tangled in her crazy hair, letting off a harsh breath of a laugh. This was Kady, off-guard, trying to look casual and unbothered. Like seeing him was no big deal.

But he knew her tells.

Kady was trying to shield herself.

She shrugged and blinked, still not looking at him.

“Hey. I’m…we’re…uh, yeah, long story.”

Penny couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Cock hardening in his pants the longer he looked at her.

It had been a long time since they last boned.

Kady was just so… _beautiful_. And headstrong. And here, in front of him. She was **here**. He could touch her. Penny so wanted to touch her. More than this Jane Austen hand touching bullshit.

He wanted to taste her. Make vehement love to her. Forgive her anything and everything if he could just hold her again.

Kady wasn’t looking at him, though. She gestured and messed her curls more than use actual words.

Shit, he missed her so much it hurt.

While Kady continued her stilted ramble, Penny found that he could inch just a little closer. Closer to her.

“Anyway…” she let trail off. Her words had run dry.

A good thing about them, though? He and Kady didn’t need words.

When their eyes connected again, it was like flint to a powder keg.

Penny wasn’t sure who pounced first. He _did_ know that one second he was standing upright with her, mouths locked and hands urgently trying to pull each other closer, the next he was thrust up against the opposite shelves. The bodega’s shelving unit shook with the impact, and a few boxes of instant mashed potatoes tumbled down to the epoxy floor.

It didn’t matter.

He attacked her lips, hard and desperate, gliding his tongue across the roof of her mouth. They moaned has he rolled them over. Pressing her into the shelves, more food items fell haphazardly around them. A jar of olives precariously rolled near Kady’s feet. They were a hurricane of destruction, and he didn’t fucking **care**.

Kady fought for dominance in the kiss, biting his lower lip before she pulled back and gripped him by his scarf.

“Follow me. Now.”

Like hell he wasn’t going to follow.

She pulled him into what looked like the bodega’s small stockroom. He took a precious few seconds from her mouth to kick the door and ward the fucking thing to stay shut.

Nobody was going to stop them if he could help it.

Once he was done, they tore at each other’s clothing. Their lips only parted when she gently shoved Penny into a bunch of soft pet toys and bedding on the floor. Then she settled onto him.

Oh, it was so, so good.

So what if a plastic T-bone near his ass kept squeaking at every thrust? So what if a rubber chicken under his elbow sounded like it was giving loud, offended commentary?

**Worth. It.**

Kady rode him hard, like a Viking queen taking her lover one last time before war. (Not at all like running into her ex and having her way with him in the back of a store.)

That was okay, he was just as intense.

Penny never thought he would see Kady again…and now she was literally on his dick and in his hands. He held on tightly to her hips, his fingertips like anchors as he ground into every downward thrust of hers. His hands may have been useless for magic at the moment, but they could hold onto her.

After they had both violently cum, they laid sweaty and naked. And then they laughed.

Shit.

They just had public sex in the back of a bodega.

The two of them were going to have to destroy the security footage, and probably do some clean up. Kady was going to have to do a brunt of the magic because he still had not fixed his hands. He still needed his Bronx Brines, and if he remembered correctly, Kady wanted his pickles too. They were going to have to talk about that, and maybe more.

But not yet.

Now was a time to enjoy the afterglow.

Penny looked over at Kady and smiled.

“Hey, girl. Come here often?”

Kady smirked and rolled her eyes.

“Well, I do now.”

* * *

It turned out that Kady didn’t want the pickles at all. They were for Quentin’s hedge bitch friend, Julia. Who was also apparently _Kady’s_ hedge bitch friend, Julia.

(And maaaybe more… but neither of them had figured that out yet?)

When he first showed up at her apartment with the groceries, he kind of wanted to hate her for the connection she and Kady obviously had together. He just got Kady back, but every time he turned around both women were either touching the other one, or giving each other meaningfully soft goo goo eyes. They didn’t so much as kiss, but he could see the chemistry between them. There were sparks. That is an intense fucking bond, dude. This Julia chick was his competition. He should hate her. But…fuck it all, Julia turned out to not be such a bitch after all. In the weeks that followed, he found out that Julia Wicker was kind of awesome.

Which sucked. Because as much as he loved Kady…he found himself falling for Julia too.

He was so screwed.

Penny wasn’t sure when it started…but it might have sparked that first night of “dinner”. (Aka, he followed Julia’s advice to eat the pickles with Rainbow Bee Holes cereal, hoping to use the sugary milk as a chaser. Kady laughed at them both over the leftover penne she ate over the sink.)

“Oh God, why do people eat these?” He was on his third pickle and already wanted to die. The cereal milk, while it helped, could not mask all of the briny flavor.

Julia gave him a small, mischievous yet quiet smile as she bit at her pickle and spooned some milk.

“Says the man that willingly chose to eat them like a pregnant woman. Chin up! You have at least twelve more to go. If that professor is right, you could be cured soon. Drink the milk, it helps.”

Btw, it did help, and it did it work. Fucking pickles, man!

Aaaand he had felt like an ass. There she was, letting him hang out at her apartment, listening to him bitch and moan about pickles. Nevermind that she was suffering from an unwanted pregnancy of her dead coven leader’s baby, and nervous about her upcoming surgery at the clinic.

He didn’t apologize, though. She and Kady seemed to find some humor in him eating this shit. He grunted at her instead and slurped the milk straight from his bowl.

It was the look she gave him, that mellow smile with her seemingly all-knowing eyes that stayed with him as he slept on her couch. As the days followed, all three of them seemed to navigate into sleeping in the living room. All within touching distance of the other. Some strange puppy pile on the floor by the couch. This seemed almost normal for the two women, to drag pillows and blankets from the bedroom, do some research into banishing this Reynard bastard, eat some dinner, and crash in the living room. Even though he still went to classes at Brakebills, he found himself more often than not crashing at Julia’s.

At first, he saw his new feelings towards her as _“Oh, she’s cool. New friend. Nice tits. Wouldn’t say no to a threesome.”_ But then came the night after her abortion. At the time he had been staying in her home just under a week, but Julia seemed to trust him enough to let him wait in the waiting room during her surgery. You know, for Kady. Kady was strong, but she was worried about Julia. Julia didn’t mean anything to him, though. He was there to be their taxi as a thanks for letting him crash at her place. To hold Kady’s hand. To keep in the periphery, but stay silent. He didn’t want to be there for Julia.

Or so he told himself.

He traveled them to and from the apartment and the clinic. Less walking involved. He didn’t have to be a total asshole all the time.

Except…Julia was in a lot of pain. A lot. The nurse had warned about that possibility, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

He just didn’t like it.

Penny kept quiet though. It wasn’t his place. He was just doing a favor, being a taxi for the girls. Staying around just in case Kady needed something as she played Florence Nightingale. But he could tell that it was eating Kady up every time Julia winced and tried not to cry out. He felt his own muscles flex to check on her.

He couldn’t help it. He was fascinated by her. Julia Wicker was so smart, and literal grace under fire. Even after all the shit that happened to her, and what she was going through, she had this wonder about her. A true love of magic that lite her tired smiles.

He crossed his arms and shoved those thoughts out of his mind. (Even though he could tell, without reading her mind, that Kady had similar thoughts.)

That night, Julia was propped up with a million throw pillows on the couch, leaving the nest of blankets and pillows to he and Kady. While Julia did seem grateful that Kady was helping her…even he could tell there was something off. While in pain, Julia also looked…sad. He knew it wasn’t for terminating the pregnancy. Julia made it clear that she wasn’t ready to be a mom, especially with the emotional baggage of the whole situation. So…what was it?

Kady finally got it out of her, and honestly? Not what he expected. At all.

“Julia. Just…come on. Something’s wrong. Are the pain meds not cutting it? Need me to knock over a liquor store?”

“No, really. I’m fin-“

“Stop lying to me. Tell me how to help you.”

Julia sighed and finally caved.

“It’s…stupid.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“Alright! …whenever I was sick, like noncontagious sick, or having massive cramps, Q would come over and stay with me. We would play board games with our own special rules or make fun of and analyze shitty horror movies. He let me eat all of the middles of his Oreos, and made me grilled cheese sandwiches with my mom’s iron. It always made me feel better.”

Penny wrinkled his brow sarcastically her way. _Somebody let that disaster boy near a clothing iron to make food? Where the fuck were Julia’s parents?!_

Julia looked in her lap and whispered. “I miss Quentin. Things have been shitty between us lately, and not that you’re not helping, because you are, but I just miss my best friend.”

“I’ll go get him.” The words had leapt out of his mouth before he even thought them.

Both women looked over across the room at him in surprise. Penny himself was surprised. Why the shit would he volunteer to swipe Dildo Baggins from Brakebills for this woman?

But he meant it, though. Deep in his core he meant it. The sad sack was obviously somebody important to her. _Family_. If Julia wanted Quentin there, he would fucking go get him for her, no questions asked.

And he did.

* * *

As he impatiently left Brakebills’ library, he realized finding Coldwater was more difficult than he expected. Truth be told, he hadn’t really talked to the Taylor Swift fanboy since Alice was de-Niffined. He had been at the PK cottage when she was packing her Sailor Moon-wannabe room and blowing up at Quentin for making her human and unpsychotic again. (Who knew that a shade had a sixty-day return policy if wished back by a Questing Beast?) Quentin had used his last wish to get all three of them back to Brakebills. A pissed off re-humanized Alice was the end result.

And honestly? He really liked Alice, but both of them had been in the wrong. She was right, Quentin messed with her autonomy and made a choice about her life that was not his to make. By wishing her human and whole again, Alice lost the infinite wisdom that she coveted. Just because the nerd cared about her and was **severely** in a dark place because of what happened, it didn’t give him the right to make choices for her.

But… Quentin was right too.

Margo and Eliot told him at the Centaurs’ hospital about Niffin Alice holding off on killing them because she was **_bored_**. He particularly remembered Eliot’s stupidly smitten and worried gaze at the unconscious Quentin as he devotedly tucked his bangs behind his ear ( _fooling nobody, oh mighty king_ ) while Margo recounted how Alice planned to _**kill all of them**_ when she learned of some more _fun_ ways to do it. They were going to be her lab rats. Her words.

Yeah, fuck that noise!

Coldwater could’ve used his cacodemon to kill her, but she left. He tried to find a way to save her instead. He sought out a fucking Questing Breast just to save her. Penny really couldn’t say that he wouldn’t do the same in his boat size shoes. If he could fill them, that is. (Seriously, wtf was with his feet? He was like a pigmy duck with Mallard sized webbed feet. No wonder he always trips all over himself.)

After that things got awkward.

 _He_ pleaded with her to stay at school.

 _She_ threw a book at his head, then yelled at him again for making her almost damage a library book.

 _He_ told her she was being cruel and ridiculous.

 _She_ told him in various ways to go suck Eliot’s dick. Girl was like a walking Urban Dictionary on BJs.

 _He_ , in turn, got confused about why she kept bringing Eliot’s dick up since he was married to Fen, and began rambling about Ember’s marriage law and some stupidly complicated Fillory clause in his nerd books that doesn’t apply to them unless in war time, which NOT THE POINT, QUENTIN, MY GOD!

(It did not escape his attention that she didn’t say that Quentin should go sex-up _Margo_. You know, the _other_ friend he cheated on her with. Which, fuck. Even _Alice_ could see that her soft boy ex was desperately pining over his best male friend. There was no “bro” in that “romance”.

He felt bad for her, dude.

Coldwater was just an idiot that couldn’t figure out how to connect what was going on in his brain and in his pants. Even **after** that one-time Penny had to yell _“OH MY GOD! SHUT UP ABOUT ELIOT’S ASS! I DON’T NEED TO HEAR THAT SHIT! WARDS UP, FUCKER!”_ To which the asshat didn’t even apologize. He just shrugged and mumbled _“Uh, Eliot asked me how it looked in his new pants. He, ahh, puts a lot of effort into looking hot, you know? Just…stay out of my head.”_ That was _before_ they first went to Brakebills South. The idiot must only have one braincell. _)_

Penny had already checked Quentin’s room at the cottage, Alice’s former room, the library, and even the infirmary. ( _You never know_...)

Nada.

There was a possibility he could be off campus, but he doubted that. While they didn’t talk much, Penny did see him going to classes.

So, where didn’t he look?

Rolling his eyes, he went with his hunch.

Sure enough, Eliot Waugh’s room door was cracked open.

Penny was actually a little impressed. It was a known fact that Eliot was a master at warding his shit. The only person to come close to cracking his wards was Margo, and she was a fucking **_boss_**. Quentin must have worked really hard to break in.

He was also the **worst** criminal. Instead of trying to rob his friend of his expensive trinkets, Penny found the clueless, pining loser…of fucking course, reading a _Fillory_ book on Eliot’s ridiculously expensive satin comforter like the depressed sad sack he was. But he did steal one thing: A dark green sweater that he had never seen the upperclassman wear, but had to belong to him based on the sleeves being miles too long and bunched up Quentin’s forearms.

This was a new level of pathetic. (Even if he secretly empathized. He kept a candy wrapper of Kady’s.)

By the way he was carrying on, you would think he was some emo teenage girl that got dumped by Eliot on prom night, instead of the shit that went down with Alice.

Clueless motherfucker.

Daria Morgendorffer startled hard at Penny’s sudden entrance. Like a deer in headlights. He flailed and nearly took a header off of the bed.

“Penny? What the hel-?”

He didn’t give him any more time to talk.

“I’m giving you thirty seconds to re-ward this place before I take you to Julia’s.”

As Quentin stumbled off the bed, he could see what the beginnings of a protest die with worry and curiosity.

“You’ve seen Jules? What’s going on?”

“Twenty seconds-“

“No, seriously Penny, what-?”

“I don’t think High King Booze-a-Lot would appreciate his room being unlocked.”

That got him moving. Shoving up those absurd sleeves, Quentin shook out his hand. Taking on a look of pure concentration as he steadily moved through some tuts.

“Hurry up, loser!”

“Alright! Jesus, give a guy a moment!”

“Fifteen moments.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Penny.”

While not as good as Eliot’s warding, it was obvious Quentin had paid attention to him enough to pick up on how to do a half-way decent job. (Then again, not a surprise. If Penny had a dollar for every time Coldwater waxed poetic about Eliot’s hands when casting he would be a fucking billionaire.)

* * *

Julia and Kady turned their heads quickly when they popped in by the kitchen nook. Julia sat up higher from her seat, like an excited cocker spaniel puppy.

“Q?”

He couldn’t see his facial expressions, but by the waver in his voice Penny could tell the clueless duckling could tell something was wrong.

“Oh God, Jules!” Quentin said as he rushed to Julia’s side. In no time the were sitting next to each other on the couch, huddled under a blanket.

Kady shot him a smug grin that said _you are such a softy, don’t front._

Julia looked over at him from Quentin’s floppy hair and smiled beatifically.

And fuck if both of his girls’ faces didn’t make him weak.

Because they were. Both of his girls. At least to him.

Which is how Penny got talked into playing the _weirdest_ fucking game of _Clue_ with Kady and The Wonder Twins. (Seriously, they were both such nerds. Only Julia made it cute.) There were _playing cards_ and _checkers_ involved. Everyone had to act out their character or do a dare. (He could have gone his whole life not hearing Quentin pretending to be Mrs. Peacock. Kady made a hot Miss Scarlett though. Julia used her hair as a mustache for Colonel Mustard.) 

When it seemed that Julia and Quentin needed a moment to talk things out, he and Kady made excuses to do a grocery run. You know, for Oreos and things to make grilled cheese.

They visited their favorite bodega.

Yeah, they banged there again.

It was hot.

* * *

In the end, Quentin actually made okay sandwiches, (still with a clothing iron), and both Julia and Kady were happy.

Around midnight they watched _Scream 3_. He begrudgingly laughed at Julia and Quentin’s mocking observations. Kady just rolled her eyes and said that the gore didn't even look remotely real.

He caught Quentin eying the three of them later. While he and Kady were on the floor, the were propped up against the couch. Kady had one hand on this thigh, but was also holding hands with Julia. Julia seemed to be unconsciously playing with his hair. And Penny? He caught himself deftly holding her ankle. They were like a circuit. He just shrugged when the eyes landed on him.

Yeah, he didn’t really know what was going on with them either.

He thought the worst problems he and Kady would have would be him looking at another girl and her getting mad, or she would tell him a story for the third time, and they would realize they had nothing else left to say.

What he didn’t expect was both of them catching feelings for the same girl, and the fear that she may or may not return them.

\---

_Days after Ted Coldwater accidentally killed Herbert Waugh…_

Five weeks after the game night, Josh Hoberman stopped him on campus. In his hands were a baggy of some good ass weed and a Tupperware container of what was probably edibles. Since he practically lived in Julia’s apartment and traveled to Brakebills, he didn’t really interact with his classmates unless an assignment was involved, which made him surprised that Hoberman stopped to talk to him at all. He didn’t talk to Quentin. The idiot at least kept in touch with Julia the first couple of weeks via the bathroom mirror...but even he fucked off to go study in some dark corner or another.

Hoberman looked at him with his usual annoyingly jovial expression.

“Hey Penny! Just the man I wanted to see.”

_Highly doubt it._

Josh put the baggy on top of the container and pulled out his wallet.

Listen, I have a delivery for Margo and Eliot in Fillory, but I am swamped here. I will pay you fifty dollars to deliver this stuff.”

Now normally Penny would have smacked him upside the head for suggesting he be a delivery man. But, hey, cash.

Penny shrugged.

“Make it seventy and you’ve got a deal.”

Josh just smiled brighter. He pulled out some extra bills and slapped them in his palm.

“Done!”

He had to get to his class, but planned on making a quick trip to drop off the goods. (And maybe, you know, check on the fucking royals to make sure they weren’t in any goddamn trouble again. He did not want to stab someone with an adrenaline needle ever again.)

* * *

What he _didn’t_ expect was to pop into a shit storm.

He blinked at Margo and Fen in shock as a crownless Eliot was taken away to the dungeon.

“What the fuck? What do you **_mean_** Eliot is no longer king?! And what does this have to do with a fucking magical glowing tramp stamp?!”

* * *

Comments and Kudos = Love!


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